


Part 1: The Rough and the Unruly

by Thornvale



Series: Successful Assimilation: The Guide Written by Demons for Demons [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Brute, Blood and Violence, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cussing, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Erotica, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical Figures, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Male Pronouns for Crowley, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Crowley, Rough Sex, Vikings, but i tried, painful attempts at humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-11-09 09:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornvale/pseuds/Thornvale
Summary: It’s the year 866. The Vikings have made several successful attempts to invade Britain’s shores, and now they want to colonise it for good. All Crowley really wants to do is sleep his way through the entire mess.He discovers, however, that his best friend and colleague Aziraphale has since Fallen and is now known as Az’gon the Wretched. Posing as a seeress, Crowley is sent to deter him from causing more trouble than what Hell can handle.However, trouble comes in various forms.





	1. Eighty-One Years

_SUCCESSFUL ASSIMILATION: THE GUIDE WRITTEN BY DEMONS FOR DEMONS_

_PART I: THE ROUGH AND THE UNRULY_

_If ye hath foundeth thyself as a demon, ye must conceal thy moste wretched form and steal forth unto the livelihoods of mankynde to tempte them to glorious evil. _

_If ye must earneth trust, then do so, but ne’er shall a demon fall to friendshippe, lest ye art reprimanded by thy allotted supervysor. ‘Tis notte the way of demons to love, like, or even bear a milde disdaine. _

_The way of demons is great contempte. The rough and unruly nature of mankynde shall notte treate a known demon mercifully. _

* * *

**Lundenwic, Britain, 866 AD **

**(The city significantly less haunted by the ghosts of vexed Romans than Londinium.)**

When an angel died, everybody felt it. 

All of the demons of Hell fell flush with a melancholy that wasn’t theirs. As a powerful, holy flame was extinguished, the remnant energies smothered the Earth in a blanket of despair and seeped into the cracks of the crust, informing them that one of their many enemies had been vanquished in the truest sense of the word. 

For most of them, it was a cause for celebration. Angels were universally despised by demonkind and the penultimate but unreachable goal of Hell was the destruction or assimilation of Heaven and all of its holy soldiers. For the Dark Council, it was actually a major cause for concern. The extinction had not been authorised, issued, or signed off by any Demon Lords. In fact, it was as much as a surprise for them as it was for everyone else, and they knew better than any that the murder of an angel would be met with Heavenly Hostility.

It was an act of war, and they knew who was responsible. 

Crowley had felt the death of an angel, too, only for him it meant something much worse. 

He had met Aziraphale five times. The first time, the naive but well-intentioned Principality was stood watching Adam and Eve depart the security of their Garden having recently given them his legendary Flaming Sword. Truth be told, Crowley had often seen him about the place, and sometimes took the time to secretly watch the angel exploring and tasting the fruits just because he got some very undemonic and confusing feeling out of it, but that time on the wall was the first time that they spoke. 

And that was it, really. Immediately endeared by Aziraphale and his prim but winsome mannerisms, Crowley stood wonderingly underneath a starlit wing as it shielded him from the first rain. 

The second time, Noah was building the Arc that would carry his family and a pair of every beast of Earth through a devastating flood. Crowley was meant to be causing trouble, though the kind of trouble that Heaven itself was causing was, in his expert opinion, so dumbfoundedly wicked that all he had to do was sit back and take the credit for the chaos that ensued once the rains started. Aziraphale had been highly confused and then devastated by the entire affair, and when the screams of mankind sounded between the claps of thunder, Crowley was devastated, too. They ventured to a mountain and stayed there for a while, passing the days with talk until the flood subsided. 

That sweet, angelic smile could brighten any stormy day. Crowley had found himself missing it a good deal, and was fortunate enough to ‘stumble’ across Aziraphale a third time at the crucifixion of Christ. It had all been a rather sombre affair, naturally, so they had shared a drink together in the town and toasted their latest efforts to bring prosperity and discord to the holy land and the late Son of God. It was a shame, Crowley remembered thinking. They always had to meet under such dire circumstances.

Such a tradition followed upon their fourth meeting in Caligula's Rome. Aziraphale had tried to tempt him into consuming a human indulgence that wasn’t alcohol, and it had worked. Not a few days later, the emperor was assassinated. 

The fifth time, and the last, King Arthur was defending Britain from Saxon invaders. Following a minor dispute, Aziraphale and Crowley parted ways again, half expecting to find each other somewhere on a battlefield where they might convince the respective kings to just sit down and enjoy a good meal, instead. Crowley already had a commendation for the successful landing of Saxon forces on the land, though all he had really done was hang around and watch it all happen. Sometimes, he got to wear cool armour and swing a sword around, and while he was distracted by that, the very worst happened. 

Aziraphale disappeared.

The angel’s innate aura of holiness and goodness were pulled from the Earth with no explanation, sucked straight back up into Heaven. After that, Crowley patiently awaited his friend’s return, but as the years passed and there was still no sign of him returning, the demon sort of lost the will to put as much enthusiasm as he had into indirectly rescuing humanity from their repetitive displays of stupidity. 

A new angel was sent down, instead. Crowley met him, once. He was a lesser angel, though had seemed to fancy himself among the upper ranks judging from the way he talked about himself and threw his sword around like it was a toy. He wasn’t half the angel that Aziraphale had been, and Crowley was left to agonise over just what the Principality had done to warrant his sudden removal from Earth. 

That was all somewhere between two and three centuries ago. Things were not the same. They were more boring, for starters. The new angel had never been open to the particular Arrangement that his predecessor and Crowley had shared, instead deciding to send rude little notes threatening the demon’s imminent demise at every opportunity, complete with useful drawings and diagrams detailing how, when, and where it would happen.

The angel died before he could enact his carefully planned threats. 

Coincidentally, Crowley had been in the middle of reading the latest addition to the pile. (‘_Foul serpente of Eden, I shalle skewer ye withdst thy owne legge bone and roaste ye as if ye were a common oinking hogge. Meet thy noble slayer at the crowne of the Thames nay past three o’clocke to dual or I shalle pay thy sow dam a visite.’ _) That was when he felt it. The extinction of his newer adversary, which he met with both relief and shock at the suddenness of it. 

Not two minutes later, Duke Hastur appeared in the crude fireplace of the temporary Lundenwic abode. 

“CRAWLEY!” The flames bellowed, flickering in the vague shape of a man that wasn’t actually a man at all but a horrible, frog-like demon who served as one of Beelzebub’s underlings. “ARE YOU THERE?!”

“Crowley,” Crowley corrected, immediately irritated. He crouched down in front of the fire and poked at it with a prong, much to his boss’s annoyance. Hastur flapped his hand in the direction of the sharp instrument.

“STOP THAT! Lord Beelzebub believes that we have something of an emergency on our hands. Heaven’s rotten field agent just went and_ died_.”

“It wasn’t me,” Crowley said quickly. “I wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of fighting one-on-one, I swear.”

“We _ know _ it wasn’t you, idiot. It was -“ The Duke of Hell paused, his dark eyes opening up wide as if he was actually _ worried _ about something. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve seen him around, but there’s a demon sowing discord up there and he’s gone off the bloody rails with it. Drop whatever your current assignment is; Beelzebub wants you in Northumbria to knock some sense into this moron before he kickstarts a cosmic war! Apparently, it’s not the _ time _for that, yet.”

There hadn’t really been an assignment, though nobody had been checking in and so nobody noticed that Crowley had spent the last couple of centuries just mingling with humans as their country endured invasion after invasion. He had drank a lot. Definitely slept off a fair few decades, too. It seemed that comforting repetitiveness of hopelessness and mild depression was now being rudely interrupted by his wretched work.

“Fine. Listen, why did nobody tell me there’s another field agent up here?”

“Well …” Hastur looked as uncomfortable as a bundle of demon shaped flames reasonably could. “He wasn’t given the job, he just took it, and nobody had the guts to say no.”

“What, is he some kinda Lord, then? How ‘m I supposed to get him back in line, exactly?” Realisation flickered, then, and Crowley had to restrain something of a smirk, ever the professional (in front of his boss, at least). “Are you lot _ scared _of him? What’ve I got to worry about?”

Hastur grumbled. “We are NOT scared. We’re cautious. He’s fresh meat, Crawley. Newly hatched. He only Fell eight decades ago. We rigorously repurposed him, but now the bastard’s out for -“

“Wait, _ what_? He only Fell eighty years ago? He’s got to be the first one since the War.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. You’d know him. That soppy angel who somehow gave you a run for your money. That’s him! Turns out he wasn’t as soft as he looked. Not when we were done with him, anyway.” The Duke barked with nervous laughter. “Anyway, fly to Northumbria and you’ll find him near the Anglo-Saxon town of Eoforwic. He’s helping the Vikings cause some trouble there. Think you can handle it, Crawley?” A pause. “Crawley?”

Crowley was frozen. 

That explained it. Partially, at least. Aziraphale had spent the last eighty years as a demon. 

Aziraphale was a _ demon_. 

It was nearly impossible to comprehend. That angel had been the very pinnacle of _ good. _He had been his usual self at their last meeting, haughty and argumentative and endearingly ignorant. His eyes had been kind, like always. Nothing to really suggest that he was planning on purchasing a one-way ticket to eternal cosmic damnation. Aziraphale was a soldier of God in every sense and would have defended Her to his dying breath. 

What could possibly have happened to turn somebody like that into a hate-filled demon?

Crowley’s chest began to ache. It really hurt, actually, so much so that every breath of his corporation was tight and uncomfortable. Last time he had felt like that, the entire world was underwater. Only, he’d had an angel to comfort him as the storms raged across the Earth’s surface. Without even really understanding how it had happened, his felt fit to break out of pity and a genuine sorrow. The angel was the sole object of all the fondness and affection that Crowley could possibly conjure. 

What would he find, now?

“CRAWLEY! ARE YOU THERE?!”

“I’m here,” the demon managed, coming to. Stricken, he was forced to wipe any trace of anguish from his face. “I’ll go. What’s his name?”

“Az’gon. The Dark Lord’s idea of a joke, apparently. Kind of like your name. Maybe you can bond over it,” Hastur said cruelly. “Get that mad bastard back in line with his assignment or I’ll send a demonic horde to dunk him head first into the nearest font of holy water. Am I clear?”

Numbed by rage, Crowley nodded once and got to his feet. He didn’t wait for any more orders or even a dismissal before shovelling a heap of earth onto the flames to smother them entirely. Once he felt that Hastur was truly gone, he furiously kicked at the fresh mound and slammed it with his shovel several times before lobbing the tool off to the side. 

No. _ No_. How could it be? Aziraphale was too good for Hell. He had been too good for _ Heaven_. What malicious kind of joke was this? Of all the cruel and vengeful things that God had done, a Fallen Aziraphale had to be one of the very worst. She had cast her best soldier out of his home and abandoned him to the cruelty of demons. And the worst part was that Crowley hadn’t even known. He hadn’t been there at the end to pick him up off his feet, to shield him from the cold rains.

With rage and guilt hammering at his mind in vicious blows, Crowley stormed out of his home and into the night. The narrow, dirty Lundenwic streets moved by him in a blur. Once he was out of the city walls and away from the sights of townsfolk and guards, he unfurled his great, black wings and soared high up so that he might be mistaken for a buzzard or eagle. 

Using the stars to navigate, he headed north east out of Essex and over the Kingdom of Mercia. At his urgent speed, it took barely an hour before he was passing into the next kingdom approaching the north of the country: Northumbria, a current favourite of the Vikings in their quest to colonise the British Isles despite the presence of the Anglo-Saxons, who themselves had, along with the Romans, chased the Celtic natives out to the very corners of the land. 

He was an idiot, he realised. He should have known something was wrong the moment Aziraphale had mysteriously disappeared into the Heavenly Sphere without so much as a goodbye. The angel enjoyed humanity and good food and existing in general luxury too much to give it up that easily. What had occurred those following years in Heaven? Had they forced him to stay there? What _ happened? _

Frustratingly ignorant to it all, Crowley had spent most of his time asleep with no idea the person he was missing had plopped back onto Earth eighty years ago, freshly demonic and apparently enraged. 

That was fair enough. They were all enraged at the beginning. It hadn’t taken Crowley eighty years to settle down, though, for he hadn’t really been given the chance to think about it. No sooner had he crawled his way out of that pool of burning sulphur, he was being given a new name and a new job before he could come to terms with what was happening. 

He remembered feeling highly resentful more than anything. He resented God and Heaven and he certainly resented himself for getting caught up in the wrong crowd. He resented Hell and all its demons and how they celebrated everything that was wrong with the Earth. That wasn’t him. His hate was more of the casual sort, which he’d heard wasn’t enough and so he was forced to play it up just so he wouldn’t earn himself a thousand years being tortured in Tartarus. Anything was preferable to _ that_. 

And for Aziraphale to have endured anything close to all that felt even more wrong. It was a travesty, in fact. Somebody had well and truly fucked up, and if Crowley ever got his hands on them …

Below, the mountainous land was pitch black save for the glowing lights of settlements he could see dotted about for miles around. The specks of fire were like reflections of the stars above, beautiful but treacherous. Crowley had not yet visited that part of the country before, only aware that there was an army of Vikings taking up residence somewhere below so that they could plan their many invasions. 

Something flashed at him from atop a dark, shallow mountain a mile or so away. The light flickered repeatedly in a pattern, perhaps a beacon of sorts, so the demon changed the position of his wings so that he might descend and swoop down through the pesky updrafts depositing frost on his feathers. Soaring down through a low-lying cloud, he finally landed in a sea of fog.

Crowley hid his wings and moved slowly towards the fire that was blinking ominously ahead. The light was dim and blurred within the fog, though was undoubtedly forged of Hellfire. He could sense it, taste it on his tongue, and he scowled at the flavour. Everything had put him into a rather foul mood already, the last thing he needed was yet more demons intruding on what he considered a rather personal affair. 

From the gloomy swirls of stinking fog emerged Ligur, another Duke of Hell. Things must have been serious for a highly ranking demon to actually show their face on Earth; most tended to conduct their work from Downstairs in fear that they would go ‘native’, which was a dreadful fate to meet so Crowley had heard, though he would know better than any of them.

“All hail Satan,” Ligur rumbled. His eyes flashed amber in the darkness, matching the current colour of the chameleon (which was, in fact, the demon himself) on his head. 

“All hail Satan,” Crowley replied flatly. “Is that Eoforwic I saw down there?”

The Duke gave him a once-over, his nose upturned in evident dislike. It was true, Crowley was not entirely well received among certain demonic organisations, probably because he had a whole string of commendations under his belt while they festered in a lack of corporate recognition. They also did not entirely trust him - not that they really trusted anybody - because of his affiliations with mankind and its confusing culture. 

“Yes. The Vikings are gathered in a settlement to the west. They’ve lit up the entirety of the valley. Can’t miss them.” Ligur folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “They thought you might be able to blend in, Crawley, seeing as you’re the expert on humans. Az’gon is not bothering to blend in at all. We don’t need two demons drawing attention. So,” another brief once-over followed, “you need to change to fit in. Bulk up a bit. Grow a beard. Do _ something_.” 

Crowley glanced down at the tall, narrow form of his corporation. He _ liked _ how he looked. It suited how he wanted to present himself. Considering for a moment, he snapped his fingers and did near enough the opposite of what Ligur had suggested. 

He settled on a simple, charcoal coloured dress with two long slits up either side of the skirt for easier movement. A studded belt clung to his small waist. His hair was now worn long with several braids interspersed among the auburn ringlets, and he covered it partially with a soft, black cloak that draped about his head and shoulders, held together by a dragon-head brooch. As for his feet, he simply went barefoot; it lent something to the ethereal image he was going for. 

Ligur made a noise of frustration and eyed the silver wand tucked into Crowley’s belt. 

“A witch, Crawley? Did you listen to a word I just said?”

“Yeah, but the humans aren’t stupid. They’re not just gonna take in any old guy that turns up and claims he’s one of ‘em. I need to be able to offer them something first, then they’ll trust me enough to let me stick around. I’ve done this a hundred times, Ligur! I know what I’m doing.” Crowley pulled a slight face. “And I’m not a witch. I’m a seeress. They’ll be gagging for a convincing one, let me tell you.”

Ligur thought about that a moment, then grunted his assent. “Awright, fine. Just don’t be _ too _ convincing. And remember your task, _ seeress_. Do whatever it takes to stop Az’gon running wild before we’re forced to lose some of our soldiers bringing him down.” An unnerving smile crept onto the Duke’s lips, then. “It wasn’t just ‘cause you’re a people person, you know. You got a history with that one, haven’t you? Thought you might like to be the one to reign him in at long last.”

“How thoughtful,” Crowley commented. “I can do anything with enough time.”

Ligur chuckled at that. A deep, terrifying little chuckle that rattled in Crowley’s bones. He spread his arms and gestured to their bleak surroundings, though it was difficult to see much farther than a few metres at best. 

“That angel died right here. The whole mountain’s been swallowed by despair. Ain’t it just …” Ligur inhaled indulgently and closed his eyes. “_Beautiful. _Don’t forget what you’re up against. Fail, and you’ll be destroyed by him. Or us.” With that, the Duke took a step forwards and clapped Crowley painfully on the shoulder, smirking. “Wouldn’t want that pretty dress to get ruined, would you?”

Ligur’s horrible, self-satisfied little laugh seemed to echo about the entire mountain when he disappeared in a burst of Hellfire. 

“It _ is _ a nice dress,” Crowley grumbled in response once he was alone, and he began marching off into the fog, opening up his wings again. “Go fuck yourself.”

Taking to the skies once more, the demon soared silently over the bright firelight of Eoforwic. He wondered if the humans knew that something terrible had happened on the mountain nearby. There was a general lugubriousness that clung to the nature of the area, now, and the curse would likely persist for many hundreds of years, if not more. Deep, deep in his heart, Crowley felt a twinge of pity for the brazen angel that had dared face off with the newly Fallen Az’gon, who in a previous life would not have even hurt a fly intentionally. 

The demon suddenly doubted whether he would be able to achieve his task at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eoforwic is the Old English name of the town that would eventually become the city of York.


	2. Every Tree Casts a Shadow

Locating the Viking settlement deep in the western regions of Northumbria, Crowley decided to venture inside only once dawn broke on the horizon. Humans had always been more receptive in the daytime, and the importance of being well received was paramount lest he was run through with an axe before his mission had even really started. 

The array of hastily built wooden homes were cleverly done, designed to be built quickly and taken down just as fast. The buildings continued out of the valley and further on; the Vikings had well and truly made themselves at home. Pens holding sheep, goats, and cattle lined the crudely forged road, and given the carts full of wood being driven further west, there was likely a port further on where the land met the sea. The River Tyne flowed nearby, cutting through lush green fields and rolling hills. 

The morning air was bracing despite it being the height of Summer. Folding his arms into his cloak, Crowley headed up the steep, grassy hill that led into the idyllic valley, already feeling the eyes of careful lookouts at their posts upon him. Perhaps they had chosen their most hulking of men to stand guard outside, or perhaps they were all absurdly tall and strong, there was no way of telling yet. Whatever the case, he kept his gaze and defences raised in case one of them decided to go over and bludgeon him for the crime of being a stranger. Inconvenient discorporation was absolutely not on the cards.

When an enormous, golden haired fellow with a glorious beard did decide to intervene, Crowley tried to make himself look as small as possible and not something worth beating on. He stopped and attempted a soft sort of smile, but those sort of things came with difficult for a demon, so it perhaps appeared rather more wry than he wanted. The human just stopped in front of him and folded his massive arms. Crowley was sure that the man was flexing his biceps.

“Létta!” The Viking ordered, and it was then Crowley realised that he didn’t know a lick of Norse. With a quick miracle, he winced slightly as his mind was suddenly filled with thousands of words and new grammar systems. 

“Sorry?” He said sheepishly, switching his tongue to that new language with haste. 

“I said stop. What business have you with the Ostmen? Are you a messenger?”

“Er …” Crowley thought quickly, touching at the handle of his wand. “I’m no mere messenger, boy. I’m here to see whoever’s in charge. I’m a … yeah, powerful seeress, and I’ve seen them in my visions.” For full effect, he wiggled his fingers at the man in a manner that suggested mystery and magic, but it really just looked sort of stupid. 

The human did not seem entirely convinced, and rightly so. 

“What’s your name, then?”

“Crowley. You know, like crow. Odin.”

“Odin’s familiars are ravens.” 

Caught out, Crowley just scoffed. “Is that what they taught you? Bah. I’ve been serving the lords of this land for hundreds of years, given immortality by the gods themselves I’ll have you know.”

“Hm,” the human grunted, deliberating. “Whose side are you on?”

A dangerous question, to be sure. Crowley was already getting tired of having to think on his feet.

“My loyalty lies with the land and whoever is fit to rule it. I should like to provide counsel for your leaders before they run themselves into a big, burning pile of decapitated bodies, thank you very much. Will you escort me to them before I lose interest?”

For added measure, he lowered his Roman sunglasses just enough that his yellow, serpentine eyes could briefly be seen.

Intimidated by that, the guard quickly nodded and turned tail, heading into the settlement as the others watched, intrigued. Crowley held his head high and tried to radiate the confidence and wisdom that seeresses were held in high regard for, but maybe it had been a poor career move as he really didn’t know anything about anything at present, at least where current politics were concerned. He could attempt prophecy but could not guarantee its accuracy. Then again, the humans possessed far less ability for it than he did, and they seemed to do just fine.

As they headed for the largest, sturdy building at the highest rise of the valley, the demon couldn’t help but notice that he had caught the attention of men in particular. He sensed no ill-will from them whatsoever - their minds were too busy venturing to other places to even consider it. It wasn’t like his goal had been to entice such thoughts, he thought dully, though upon further inspection, the stark red hair and the long, willowy legs just really did it for some of them. He dared not pry further, but remembered that feminine charm could work in his favour if utilised well. 

There was also a demonic scent about the place, new but familiar all at once. He knew Aziraphale’s scent. This was that and more, certainly less sweet and no longer coated with rose water, something more akin to freshly fallen rain on dirt. Strangely beautiful. Allowing himself a moment to become accustomed to his friend’s scent and the feel of his general presence, he felt his heart begin to thump heavily out of a mixture of nerves and excitement. It was Aziraphale, without a doubt. New and changed but still Aziraphale. 

The large building he was led up to was beautifully made. Tall and boasting a wide, thick door purpose built to keep invaders out. Carven dragons occupied the frame like watchful guardians. Swinging the door open, the guard brought Crowley into a comfortable hall where a long dining table took precedence. There was even a place for a fire, animal pelts on the soft ground of dirt, and weapons hanging ready on the walls. 

At the table, a pair of men were devouring a large cooked pheasant. One of them, the elder, bore striking green eyes and chestnut hair which was pulled back into a braid. The younger one beside him was blonde and blue-eyed and handsome, equally as muscular and intimidating. What wasn’t handsome was the way they ate, stripping great chunks of meat from bone with their teeth and leaving the juices to fester there in their generous beards. 

“Who’s this?” Grunted the older one, staring suspiciously at the stranger.

Before the guard had a chance to speak, Crowley stepped forwards and removed his sunglasses.

The reaction was instantaneous. The older man immediately stood up and pointed, thankfully appearing more curious than intimidated (the axes on the walls were very large and sharp). 

“Red hair,” the Viking observed excitedly. “Eyes of a snake! Brother, ‘tis the spawn of Loki himself!”

Everybody raised their eyebrows at that. Entirely clueless but noting the excitement, Crowley just shrugged casually.

“Er, yeah. Right. That’s right. Spawn of Loki, that’s me.”

“Odin’s beard, our voyage here is a blessed one. First a fylgja, now a daughter of Loki! Is that a wand you have there? Are you a seeress? Are you here to fight by our side?”

“Halfdan, give her a chance to speak!” Interrupted the younger brother, also standing, though with some difficulty. He took a pair of wooden crutches from the side and balanced his weight on them. “What is your name, good lady?”

“Crowley. And you?”

“Ivar Ragnarsson, and this is my brother, Halfdan.” He clapped the other on the shoulder, grinning. “No need for the Wholedan joke, he’s heard it a hundred times.”

“A hundred times,” Halfdan agreed sadly. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley lied, glad that he had managed to restrain himself. “I’m here to lend my services, if you’ll have me. With the blood of gods in my veins, my powers to heal and divine knowledge are true. I should like to take up residence among your people a while. You said something about a fulg…uh.” He paused and clicked his tongue. “Sorry, your language is still new to me.”

Halfdan slammed a fist down on the table, startling poor Crowley. 

“And yet you speak it beautifully!” He insisted, much to the relief of the demon. “A fylgja is … hm, you’re more clever than I am, Ivar. You explain it.”

“A fylgja is our word for a shapeshifting spirit. They are guardians by nature. They attach themselves to a person or people and their form reflects the strengths of their chosen ones. Our fylgja came to us before our voyage across the sea,” recalled Ivar eagerly. “I remember it well. We were preparing our boat and that mighty beast appeared from the darkened forest.”

“The gods strengthen our cause, brother!” Halfdan bellowed with enthusiasm, raising his drinking horn in Crowley’s direction. “We accept your aid, Crowley Lokadottir. We shall put a roof over your head and good food in your belly! Such is the way of the Ostmen! We shall revere our guides with a feast tonight!”

“Aye!” Agreed Ivar.

“Aye!” Agreed the guard, who abruptly left to spread the good news. 

Well, that was easy.

He hadn’t even had to do any magic. Nope, just flash them the old serpent eyes, that did the trick. At least he would not have to hide them around the Vikings like he did most others; his outward appearance was, apparently, in line with deities that were revered among the Scandinavians, which allowed him a certain freedom he hadn’t been expecting. He certainly had not been expecting such a warm welcome.

However, his task was not really to be cavorting with humans. It was important to have their trust, yes, just so that it would be easier to hang around, but his true goal was still just slightly out of reach.

“Well, thanks very much,” Crowley said, inclining his head respectfully towards the Warlord brothers. “This fylgja of yours … would his name happen to be Az’gon?”

The pair gaped at each other, then back at the seeress with admiration. 

“Yes! Az’gon the Wretched! Your powers of prophecy are impressive, Crowley!”

“Might you tell me where he is?”

The brothers looked at each other again, this time with uncertainty. If it was born of suspicion, it was likely the smartest thing they had done since he had arrived. 

“My desire is only to behold such a spirit. They come few and far between on these islands,” Crowley continued reassuringly. “Y’know, not really part of the local flora and fauna. Plenty of trolls around, though. You’ll know if you meet one of those big bastards. Watch out for bridges and all that.”

The Warlords swiftly bowed their heads and shoved their fists across their chests in a swift show of respect. 

“Thank you for your wisdom, Lokadottir!” Said Ivar. “You’ll find Az’gon in the woods to the north-west. Just … be warned, good seeress. The woods are not kind, and neither is he.”

Disheartened by that, Crowley nodded in thanks and drifted out of the hall, taking care to appear as graceful and other-worldly as he could reasonably allow as he went. 

Humans were idiots. He came to that realisation every so often. That did not stop him from liking the majority of them, however; idiocy made things much easier for him, especially when it came to his assignments because they basically completed themselves. All he ever had to do was put ideas into a few heads and that was it.

In this particular regard, they believed far too quickly in anything that would help them win a war, but that was human nature. They wanted to win, and quite often they would do anything to do it, even if it meant mindlessly accepting help from dangerous entities that they didn’t really understand. All the power to them for their boldness, he supposed. 

Pottering about until he found a path through the tall grass beside the northernmost mountain, Crowley swiftly left the settlement behind and headed into the wilds. Morning shone down upon the picturesque lands. Bushes and flowers of all colours decorated the valleys, hiding paths and caves into the unknown and lining the bubbling river’s edge. And there, just past the stout mountain, a dark forest stretched on for miles. 

It stood out like a blotch of ink on parchment. 

The Summer seemed not to touch it. The closer Crowley got to the woods, the colder he felt. It seemed the living dared not approach; the flowers did not bloom among the jagged trees, and all pretty birdsong diminished. The woods were the very definition of _ spooky _ and Crowley did not like it one bit, even if he would have insisted otherwise. There was fear in the unknown, and he had no idea what to really expect as he ventured into the blighted forest.

It was deathly silent. Uncomfortable, the demon pressed on and tried to ignore his senses going off like alarm bells. Terrible things had happened in this place. Death was among them, its stench rising from the ground as if gallons of blood had soaked into the dirt and was now feeding the barely alive environment. It felt as though the corpse-fed trees were watching him as he made his way along a crooked path. 

It was more like something one might find in one of the Circles of Hell. Not on Earth. He could even smell Hellfire in the still, frigid air. Had he gone off course at some point and accidentally stumbled into a secret route to Hell? It felt more and more to be the case as he pressed on and things started to get even more strange.

The path disappeared into a broad stream of cold, black water. Peering down into it, he saw his own yellow-eyed reflection staring back at him. Something blue and bright floated over his head there in the disturbed image - quickly looking up, Crowley saw a lantern burning softly with blue Hellfire magically hovering past. 

More of them began to float silently in from the trees. Others burned ominously in the distance like will o’ the wisps, tempting travellers to wander into danger. Crowley swallowed. His spookiness sense was now off the charts. A haunted church would be a more comfortable place to be than there in the woods where literally anything could reach out from behind the trees and yank him into the unknown.

He shook himself. He was a _ demon_. There was nothing to be afraid of. Right?

Using a miracle to walk across the water and to the other side of the stream, Crowley headed in the direction the lanterns were floating in from. The blue Hellfire was new. It had a different feeling to the usual variety, as though it had been somehow altered to burn with an icy heat. Touching the bottom of one errant lantern, he held it there in his hand a moment and then let it drift away.

Among the trees, strange looking stones were starting to protrude from the dark earth. There was strategy to their placement, and he realised that they were forming rings that gradually became smaller as he walked through them. The stones were tall, sometimes flat, sometimes pointed, and some had strange patterns and pictures carved into them which had since been graffitied with harsh strikes. 

The place felt awfully sad. It was old and abandoned and it seemed the Sun would never shine on the structure again. 

There were similar stone rings scattered about the country, Stonehenge being the most well known and impressive. They were remnants of a society now near enough extinct and banished. They simply had not been able to defend themselves from the onslaught of invaders who had seen the lush, green lands and decided that they were ripe for the picking.

Perhaps it had been a place of worship, once, but now it was surely a place that had seen death, and lots of it.

Crowley shuddered. Turning his thoughts away from such things, he made to pass into the next ring, though stopped when he felt a magical ward suddenly struck with his movement. 

It took a moment, then something snuffled behind him. 

The demon slowly turned, hope and fear spiking all at once. 

A pair of silver-blue eyes reflected light back at him from between the quiet trees. The dark shape they belonged to was not humanoid. As it lumbered noisily forwards, the creature snorted and growled and when it got close enough that light was shed upon it, it reared up onto its powerful hind legs and stared down at him from its impressive height. 

A brown bear. 

Its fur was dark and matted, thoroughly unkempt. Long scars criss-crossed its thick, strong body. Razor-sharp black claws shone on its massive paws, and the dark rings of its eyes narrowed upon focusing on Crowley. There was an intelligence within its wildness; it stared him over and grunted questioningly, puffing cold steam into the air from between sharp, white teeth. 

It was no wonder why he was called ‘the Wretched’. The beast was haunted. There was a tale of sorrow in the scars and patches of missing fur. Crowley silently lamented, frowning as a familiar scent confirmed his worst suspicions. 

“Az’gon?” He asked quietly, praying that those devastating claws would not be used to slice him into vaguely annoyed little ribbons. Just in case, he held out his hands in a submissive gesture. The creature might have somehow been his old friend, but Falling changed angels. It turned them into new things, new beings, sucked dry of love for it all to be replaced with darker desires. Gulping, he took a tentative step forwards. “It’s me. It’s Crowley.”

The enormous beast made a low, rumbling noise and dropped back onto all fours, its paws shaking the earth. It could have shredded Crowley with terrifying ease if it felt so inclined, but no - it took a hesitant step backwards, instead, its ears flattening. Its beautiful, wild eyes burned with fear and anger and sadness, encapsulating the very soul of the woods they found themselves in. 

Something tugged at Crowley’s heartstrings. Damn it all. He could not allow the situation to be met with his own anger in case he scared the other demon away, but there it lingered. Something had turned Aziraphale into that beast and he wanted to get his hands on whoever was responsible, even if that would be God Herself. 

Thinking quickly, he lowered himself down to his knees and summoned some food items into his hands. Berries, nuts, whatever was close. Cupping them in his palms, he held them out and offered them forwards.

“It’s Crowley,” he said again, fighting to keep his voice level. “It’s all right. I’m a friend, remember?”

Temptation flickered in the bear’s eyes. Crowley knew that look. His heart ached with the familiarity of it, both sorrow and joy occupying that space. His friend was back, but things were different, now, and there was no going back to the simplicity of before.

Slowly, the great bear trod forwards, sniffing noisily at the air. Az’gon seemed all the more massive up close. There was a formidable strength underneath that layer of softness likely ready to strike out at any moment, but he kept his head lowered and worked his grizzled muzzle into Crowley’s cupped hands to slurp up the treats presented to him.

“There we go,” Crowley crooned fondly. “Well. Look at you, then. Still a big idiot. Even bigger, now, actually. At least you didn’t end up as a toad or something. Nobody wants to be a toad, do they?” Concerned that his friend was actually stuck in the form of a bear, he made the mistake of reaching up to put a hand on that broad, furry head.

Az’gon backed off at once, bellowing with offence. The beast stumbled onto his backside and then stood up on his hind legs again, a guttural roar shaking his entire body as he lunged forwards and slammed his great, clawed paws down right where Crowley had smartly moved from half a second previously. 

Scrambling to hide partially behind one of the old stones, Crowley hissed as he peered at Az’gon around the side of it.

“Oi! It’s me!” He yelled furiously, startled. “D’you know how long it’ll take me to get back here if I’m discorporated? You great bloody …” Trailing off, Crowley watched, transfixed, when Az’gon began to transform.

The shape of the bear magically shrank back into something humanoid. It was difficult to tell just what Az’gon really looked like because he was covered in thick clothes and Viking armaments, and a mantle of bear-fur concealed much of his head and shoulders. Even his face was near enough indeterminable - he wore a deer skull as a mask, the symmetrical antlers reaching high. There was a brown, scruffy beard and the eyes were still silver-blue and bear-like, but little more could be seen.

His wings, which were proudly on display, were an absolute mess. They were mostly black but blotchy in parts, and the feathers - well, they were in such a poor, bedraggled state that any demon worth their salt would have turned their noses up at them. 

Az’gon stood in a stance that indicated he was ready to lunge, his eyes positively feral. Instead, he bent down to grab a fist-sized rock and lobbed it rudely in Crowley’s direction. It struck the stone inches from Crowley’s head, much to the latter’s affront.

“Aziraphale!” He burst out automatically, furious, and that was yet another mistake. No sooner had he said it, Az’gon was growling and throwing yet another rock in his direction. This one pinged off the stone and split into two jagged pieces. 

“Don’t call me that,” his friend snarled. His voice was almost the same, a sort of deep, velvety quality to it that Crowley had always found oddly comforting, but there was a rougher, guttural edge to it now. “Any of them could be listening, you fool. It’s Az’gon! Az’gon, Az’gon, Az’gon. Unless, of course, you’d rather be strung up and flogged by imps for using an angel’s name.”

“Oh, come off it,” Crowley responded angrily, daring to peer out from behind the stone again. Once he felt as though the rock-throwing session was over with, he cautiously stepped out. “If you’re worried about either of us getting into trouble, you wouldn’t have killed an angel. How about that? You’re really in Hell’s bad books for that one. Not that they’ve got good books. You know what I mean. Carry on with this and you’ll be up shit’s creek before you can say ‘hung, drawn, and quartered’.”

Az’gon stared at him a moment. Then, he laughed. It wasn’t necessarily from amusement; Aziraphale always had a tendency to laugh when he was nervous, though he sounded near enough maddened, now. The feral demon wheezed and then a hint of a smile appeared below the teeth of the skull on his face. 

“_Good. _ Do you _ really _think I care what regard Hell holds me in, Crowley? Oh, and believe me, dear, the angel deserved everything that he got.”

“Probably,” Crowley agreed sourly, recalling the rude notes currently piled on a table somewhere in London. “Didn’t mean you had to do it. That wasn’t you. What the Hell happened, eh? Why didn’t you come and find me after you Fell? I could’ve helped you!”

The other demon looked away, his smile dripping from his face. He shuffled on his feet a moment, apparently uncomfortable, and when he spoke again his gravelly voice was laced with wrath. 

“I think that you should leave, Crowley. Whatever you were looking for isn’t here.” With that Az’gon looked at him once more and then turned away, heading somewhere into the trees, the longest feathers of his messy wings dragging on the ground behind him. 

Crowley stared after the other in disbelief, wounded. Gathering his wits, he followed and caught up with him, though was careful to hang back a little to offer a respectful distance. 

“I came here looking for an old friend, and here you are. It doesn’t matter what you are or what your name is, does it? You’re still you.”

“Is that so?” The other demon retorted, a dangerous playfulness to his voice as he walked, now. “Is that why you’re so disappointed with what you have found?”

It was like a verbal punch to the gut. Az’gon had misread whatever darker emotions he could sense entirely. Trying not to let his annoyance and desperation show, Crowley maintained a cool, calm exterior as he willfully followed the other deeper into the woods. 

“I’m disappointed with _ them, _ you know. Not with you. Never with you. I just want to help you, awright? Will you let me?”

“Well, that’s not very demonic of you, is it?”

“Oh -“ Crowley bristled, though just about managed to restrain from raising his voice. “Have you forgotten everything? You _ know _ me. You know that I don’t care about Hell, either. I especially don’t care about them now. Look … can we just talk? Something? I’ve …” he faltered.

_ I’ve missed you. _

The temptation to reach out and make contact was strong, but he refrained. Az’gon did not seem to be a fan of that, now; Hell had likely made sure of it. All the more, the metal gauntlets he wore were clawed at the tips and could discorporate Crowley before he even realised what was happening, and that was not particularly ideal. There was a sword at the demon’s belt, too. _ The _sword, if he wasn’t mistaken. It had likely been used to kill an angel the night prior. 

“Go _ away_, Crowley,” Az’gon insisted, though without much of the aggression of before. “You’ll get yourself into trouble with Hell if you stay here. If they sent you to try and control me, it won’t work. Just tell them it’s a lost cause and be on your way. Enjoy the world! Just do it away from here.”

“No. You realise if you keep this up, they’ll make you extinct. Do you know that? Do y’think I’ll just sit back and let that happen?”

“Stay here and they’ll kill you, too. So, go.”

“No.”

Az’gon stopped and turned, burning with ire. “_Yes_.”

“Nope.”

“Aziraphale is _ dead_, Crowley! I’m not an angel anymore!”

The whinging insistence was just so familiar, so _ Aziraphale _ that Crowley couldn’t help but smile slightly in response, finally finding himself unintimidated enough to do so.

“He’s dead, is he? Well … might I tempt you into some brunch so that we can make a toast to his memory?”

Az’gon’s eyes positively lit up as soon as the word ‘brunch’ came into the equation. Hanging there a moment in consideration, he pouted and looked Crowley up and down, his ire dissipating as swiftly as it had arisen.

“Still a wily old serpent, then.”

“Some things never change, do they?” Crowley offered in response. “C’mon. I’ll make eggs. Poached and sprinkled with pepper, just how you like ‘em, right?”

“O-oh -“ stuttered his friend, raising his nose haughtily. “Oh, all right, then. _ Fine_.”

With great relief did Crowley follow his old friend further into the unknown. 


	3. A Better World

At the centre of the stone rings was a house.

It likely had not appeared there by the means of humanity. Made of pale stone, it offered a small but cosy space when they made their way inside, though they were not entirely spared the spookiness of the woods: the candles inside were floating, and they immediately lit with that strange blue Hellfire upon acknowledging the presence of demons. There were collections of various bones and skulls along the shelves, some of them carved with patterns. There were crystals of all colours and small jars filled with mysterious substances, but scrolls of all sizes outnumbered them greatly, piled high in crooked pyramids. A large bed covered in tartan thrown and fur pelts sat in the corner, appearing used. 

Strangest of all, small cages hung underneath the shelves and contained creatures the likes of which Crowley had never seen in his life. Approaching one, he was both intrigued and distraught to find a tiny, humanoid being staring up at him, its teeny hands gripping the wicker bars of its cage. It looked like what a human might have described as a goblin of some sort, a bit ugly and pointy and it had little feathered wings, too. It looked rather sorry for itself trapped there in its prison.

“What the Hell is that thing?” He asked, turning to Az’gon, who was fiddling with the now fairly ominous cauldron hanging over the fireplace. The other demon glanced at him over his shoulder, crinkles of sly amusement forming at the corners of his dark-rimmed eyes. 

“Dinner.”

“Wh-“ Crowley managed, flustered, and then he frowned when his friend started cackling. “Oh, yeah, very funny. Hilarious.” Still not entirely sure if the demon had been joking, he looked at the now panic-stricken little creature in the cage with a degree of sympathy. It’s big, bug-like eyes stared beseechingly up at him.

“Don’t let it fool you, Crowley. It’s supposed to be a pixie. Let it out and it will go for your eyeballs, I promise. They’re in need of some refining.” Once the fire was lit, this time with normal, orange flames, Az’gon straightened up and regarded him from a safe distance. With the fire at his back and the antlers of his mask nearly scraping the ceiling, he appeared every bit a demonic fylgja. The way the light reflected back from his eyes was somewhat disconcerting, but oddly beautiful, too. “I created them.”

Crowley’s eyebrows almost met his hairline. “You did?” Moving on to the next cage, he found another pixie that snarled at him through needle-sharp teeth. “Well, aren’t you clever.”

“The humans have such imagination. They tell the most wonderful stories. Some of them I have recorded in great detail. Others, I sought to create the creatures and monsters that the tales warned of. Ghouls, goblins, banshees, black shucks, oh, you name it. And now pixies. They’re difficult. They like the taste of demon blood.”

It all sounded like the ramblings of a madman, but entirely believable. The woods alone were evidence enough of Az’gon’s strange experiments. Simultaneously impressed and not entirely sure what to make of it all, Crowley moved away from the cages and refrained from inspecting anything else in case he found something equally as horrifying, though the temptation to see the results was near staggering.

“Why?” He asked, unable to contain his curiosity. Removing the cauldron from the fire, he conjured a pan and some eggs and started to prepare the promised meal. He didn’t really have much idea on how to do it, but he knew how Az’gon liked it, and that was painstakingly made instead of simply magicked into existence. 

“The whole world should be like this, don’t you think?” Was the odd reply. “Different. The stories that humans make are often better than reality. Dare I say, far more interesting than God’s own creation. I commanded the creatures to go forth and multiply.” Az’gon giggled wickedly at that, and Crowley turned in time to see him wriggle with excitement. “They’re spreading to the four corners of the islands, and soon across the sea! _ My _ dear creatures.” With that, he started humming inanely and pottered about while brunch cooked, speaking in an alien language to his fairies as he passed them.

So Aziraphale had lost his damned mind. That was fine. It had only ever seemed to be a matter of time. 

What wasn’t fine was the failure to recognise that what he was doing was going to get him killed. 

Struggling to take it all in and come up with a solution, Crowley gnawed on his lower lip as he watched the water boil. His first hurdle was the matter of trust, for he doubted he was going to be listened to at all otherwise. Though they had been friends for a long, long time, Az’gon was skittish, now, avoiding touch and even extended eye contact. He jumped at small noises. Whatever had happened, Crowley needed him to know that he was nothing to be afraid of if his task was to be completed with any success. 

It was a daunting task. He was supposed to do that and prevent the demon from doing anything else that would earn him the wrath of Heaven and Hell alike. Letting him simply fall into extinction was absolutely out of the question. 

Crowley liked him - no, _ loved _ him too much for anything like that to happen. No matter what form that love took, it would always be there. It had been since the Garden. Aziraphale had been the first being to speak to him as if he was not a creature that crawled along the ground but something with a mind and thoughts. The angel had betrayed Heaven by talking to and even making arrangements with a demon, and yet he had done it all for the greater good. And, Crowley liked to think, for their friendship. He could not sense love like angels could, but he knew that Aziraphale had a fondness for him that was shared with no other. It had always been there in his eyes, his smile. Nobody else had that with him. 

A bittersweet feeling crawled into his chest. When the eggs were ready, he scooped them onto a wooden plate and sprinkled them with pepper, as promised. If anything was the way back into Az’gon’s heart, it was the indulgences that he enjoyed. 

With that painful ache lingering, he watched as his friend hurried to sit at a nearby table, shoving a load of dusty crockery aside as he went. There was his angel, hungry and temporarily like putty in his fingers, watching him like a trained bear expecting treats from its master. Crowley lowered the plate down in front of him and sat down on a nearby stool, smirking a little as Az’gon forwent cutlery and simply crammed the eggs in the approximate direction of his face. 

Crowley was sure that they went down whole, which he found oddly impressive. They were gone in all of about ten seconds. Az’gon wiped his mouth on his sleeve and huffed contentedly. 

“Good,” he grunted. Gaze flickering briefly over to Crowley, he continued, “What are you posing as, then? A witch?”

“A seeress. The Anglo-Saxons would probably call them witches, I suppose. Your Warlord friends back there think I’m a daughter of Loki, whoever that is.”

“Ahh,” Az’gon purred knowingly. “Yes, that suits you. Loki is a god of theirs. A troublemaker, if you will. He plays tricks on the others. He is a god of shapeshifting and magic, gender be damned. One of his children is a giant serpent that has the entire world ensnared, like ... Ouroboros. Infinity.”

A small silence followed. Fighting with himself, Crowley inched forwards off the stool and onto his knees, very slowly approaching the table to sit back on his heels and peer up at his friend. When Az’gon tensed up in response, he held up his hands to expose his empty palms, then softly folded them down on his lap. 

“I’m not going to talk about it,” growled Az’gon, his armoured fists clenching tightly. “I didn’t find you because I didn’t want you to see me like this, Crowley. It was better that you weren’t there.”

There were all kinds of arguments fluttering about Crowley’s mind at that, but the whole point of his attempted approach was not to cause conflict but to heal any cracks that had formed in their relationship. Shoving a mental cork into the many things he could have said, he instead leaned forwards a little and rested his head against the side of the table, peering wonderingly up at his friend. 

“All right. Well, I’m here, now. All I see is someone I missed an awful lot. D’you think we might work together on this assignment?”

Appearing grateful for the non-invasive approach, Az’gon’s fists slowly unclenched, though the clawed tips of his gauntlets scratched nervously at the wood of the table. 

“Is that why they sent you here? To help me? Or to stop me?”

“They’ve asked me to pull you back in line,” Crowley admitted freely. “I’m not doing it for them, though. The only reason they haven’t come here to do it themselves is because they’re scared of you. How’s that feel, then? And how the bloody Hell did you manage it?”

That was apparently a story for another time, for Az’gon ignored the questions and instead stood up to delve into a pile of scrolls nearby. Producing a particularly ragged one, he unfurled it on the table and weighed it down with a few drinking horns. It was a rough map of the British Isles marked with the differing countries and the seven kingdoms of England. 

To the north were the smaller Scottish kingdoms, the lands of the Picts. To the west was North Wales. The English kingdoms were Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, Essex, Sussex, Kent, and finally Wessex. Much of it was familiar to Crowley from the Arthurian era, and he watched in silent confusion as his friend headed for the hanging cages beyond. 

“Try to escape and I’ll clip your wings,” Az’gon threatened the pixies. Reaching into the cages one by one, he didn’t stop until he had several of the tiny creatures bundled in both hands. He sat down at the table and gestured for Crowley to join him there, which he quickly did, pulling the stool forwards. “Our two Warlords.” Two pixies were dropped onto the map, and they obediently moved to stand over Northumbria, grumbling to themselves as they did. “Two Saxon kings, Aelle and Osbert.” Two more were dropped, and they moved to stand within Northumbria as well, specifically over the town of Eoforwic. “Finally, King Ethelred and his son, Alfred.” These two pixies were dropped over the southern kingdom of Wessex. 

Crowley stared, entirely lost. Az’gon continued:

“All other kingdoms are lost or are losing to Viking rule. They need only lay claim to the town Eoforwic to win the kingdom of Northumbria, but Aelle and Osbert will not go down easily. My assignment was to guide Halfdan and Ivar here to turn the tides in the favour of the Vikings, and now it is to give them the ideas they need to win _ all _the kingdoms, including Wessex, which is currently the strongest of them.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered, watching as the pixies representing the different important figures began squabbling and fighting among themselves. “Hell is on the side of the Pagans, then.”

“Yes, and Heaven is supporting the Christian Anglo-Saxons. That angel …” Az’gon paused, hands tightening again. “He had been influencing their kings. He’s out of the picture now. Until they send their next one.”

“All right. I’m following.” Crowley sighed. “All this taking sides is all a bit silly, isn’t it? It seems a bit more complicated than that.”

“My thoughts exactly, dear boy,” Az’gon said eagerly, his eyes shining. “To Hell with, er, Hell’s plan. The Vikings will take Northumbria under my guidance, but it’s impossible for them to claim Wessex. They will be forced to call a truce if they want to inhabit this country at all. The idiots _ will _co-exist, even if they have to split the country in half.”

As if on cue, the pixies stopped fighting and arranged themselves accordingly: three in the north and three in the south. Understanding, Crowley nodded, unsurprised to have found that his friend had put so much thought into it all. 

“Gotcha. And you put in a report at the end of it all explaining that half of the country is now occupied. They’ll be happy with that. Nobody is really keeping count so long as the paperwork is done.”

“And you put in a report telling them how well behaved I’ve been,” Az’gon responded, going so far as to flutter his eyelashes. “I really have no idea what all the fuss is about. I’ve only been doing my job.”

“And attracting too much attention with your side-projects, no doubt,” Crowley gestured at the bored looking pixies on the table. “And antagonising Heaven, can’t forget that one. Be bloody careful, awright? Either of them - they _ will _ kill you, so I’ll be keeping an eye on you for your own damn sake.”

To his surprise, the other demon leaned forwards a little, flashing him vaguely pointed teeth in a strange smile. It was strange because Crowley had never seen a smile of that particular ilk before, and had no idea what it meant. 

“Well …” Az’gon murmured, allowing Crowley a good look at his dark, silvery eyes. It was like peering into two deep, moonlit pools, eerie and entrancing. “I am hardly complaining. I missed you.”

They lingered like that for a heart-stopping moment, one of them smiling and the other awkwardly flushing. Only, the order of which these things usually occurred was mysteriously reversed, and Crowley wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Still, fondness flickered in his expression and he gingerly reached a hand forwards, finding willing, warm fingers ensnaring his own in a heartbeat. 

One of the pixies made an obnoxious gagging sound. Rudely pulled from the affectionate moment, the demon pair separated with one sighing and one growling lowly. The pixies were roughly seized back into Az’gon’s hands and crammed back into their respective cages now that their purpose was served. One of them blew a raspberry at his back when he turned to Crowley. 

It was an odd feeling being looked at as if one was a morsel. A couple of eggs apparently hadn’t been enough to entirely sate Az’gon, which made sense in retrospect; his hungers in angelhood would now be amplified tenfold, and if anything could be said of bears, it was that they would eat, eat, eat until they could survive their deep Winter sleep. Crowley was being looked at as though he was a second helping of brunch. Did bears eat snakes in the wild? Maybe he really didn’t know enough about snakes.

“Your dress is nice,” Az’gon suddenly blurted out at high speed. “Yes. Nice … nice. By the way. Anyway -“

“No,” Crowley interrupted before he could stop himself. Standing, he beheld his friend curiously. “You, too. Look nice, I mean. Ngh.” He cringed at himself and their agonising attempts to … _ whatever _ this was. Reconcile? More like blundering face-first into a sea of awkwardness born from those many decades apart. “I mean, the mask is cool but it would be nice to see your face again. Especially if we’re gonna be working together.”

“Ah, yes, yes, working together. Like the good old times. Goodness, it feels like centuries ago. Oh - well, it was,” Az’gon blithered nervously, quickly turning away and ignoring Crowley’s request to show himself. “We have our plan, then. They’re planning the invasion of Eoforwic to take place in a month and a half.”

“So what do we do in the meantime, then?” Crowley asked unsurely, folding his arms. He raised an eyebrow at his friend’s weird little smile.

“We carry on earning their trust, of course.”

* * *

It meant partying. A _ lot. _

The Vikings loved revelry as much as they loved fighting and would often combine the two, feasting and drinking the nights away until scuffles and brawls broke out all across their temporary settlement. They would cheer each other on until one of the fighters lay either unconscious or dead, which then provided even more reason for them to drink and celebrate the prowess of the winner. 

Crowley liked to drink as much as the next person. It provided a temporary relief to any concerns and worries that might have been afflicting his mind. Trying to fit in among the people proved more difficult than he anticipated, however; they would try to ply him with drinks so that he might reveal their fortune, and if he didn’t like a particular person he might have made a few things up just to scare them off, such as a particularly grizzly fate at the tusks of a boar or the hands of a giant. The Vikings lapped it all up like the beer and mead they consumed by the barrel. 

A couple of weeks into his visit, they were feasting yet again. He had no idea what they were celebrating and was too pleasantly drunk to really care, sat near the head of the massive table that had been brought outside for the settlers to eat and drink at. Nearby, Halfdan and Ivar guffawed idiotically amongst themselves, swaying to the fast-paced music while a bard sang the many achievements of the god Thor. Vikings danced, ate, and drank messily, and cheered whenever another fight broke out between their warriors. 

He liked them, he realised. They were fools, just like the rest of mankind, but he enjoyed them and their stories and magical fairytales. The tales of their gods often brought a small smile to his lips, for their beloved deities were so far from perfect that it was actually somewhat refreshing. Their gods were not wholly good and not wholly bad. They were flawed, just like mankind. Just like angels and just like demons. 

And he came to understand why the Vikings revered Az’gon so after hearing their stories. With his great, black wings and ability with a sword, they thought him a wild spirit with connection to Valhalla and the great warriors that feasted within those coveted halls. It was no wonder he had cleverly attached himself to the Warlords Halfdan and Ivar, who celebrated him in the belief he was proof of their ascent to the realm of the gods upon their deaths. Perhaps that was why the Vikings were so formidable in battle, so Crowley had heard. Fighting to the death earnt them passage to a glorious afterlife. 

Az’gon tended to lurk back in the shadows whenever the people were occupied with a party. However, Crowley had seen him get drunk into oblivion more than once, and that night was no exception. Crowley emerged from a conversation with Halfdan to find his friend stood on the feast table holding an entire barrel of mead up over his head, an impressive display of strength in itself, and he was chugging down the liquid while the Vikings cheered him on. The demon wobbled dangerously, took a slight step to the side, then slipped on a pie and fell down so hard that the entire table broke into two, much to the delight of the onlookers. 

Buried underneath a barrel and plates of food, Az’gon groaned mightily and then promptly fell asleep. 

He did that a lot, too, perhaps because Summer was easing into Autumn. He had fallen asleep at strategy meetings more than once. Crowley had even caught him curled up in a tree after trying his hardest to pick a juicy fruit from its highest branch. 

The first few times, Az’gon had tried to attack him upon waking, but it had been two weeks since their reintroduction and the ties of trust were slowly and carefully lacing back together. They were familiar with each other’s scents and presence by then. It was slow going; Crowley still had not seen him without his mask and could barely get close, but each day was another step forwards. 

And so, when Crowley knelt down to try and shake him awake, Az’gon didn’t fly off the rails but instead reached for a flower that had gone flying from a pot on the table and clumsily inserted it into the demon’s long, crimson hair, warm admiration in his bleary eyes. 

“Mnngghh,” he managed, licking mead from his lips. “Crowley. Crowley, Crowley, _ Crowleymmgnhgh._”

“You’re off your face,” Crowley observed. Indeed, so much alcohol had been consumed that he wasn’t entirely sure how a discorporation hadn’t happened yet. He still wasn’t entirely sober himself, truth be told, his worries currently floating off somewhere into the stratosphere until the alcohol wore off and he’d be forced to consider them again. “Did you ever get this drunk before?”

“Nnnnn.”

“Right. Well, up you get. C’mon.”

Az’gon was still staring up at him, humming contentedly. Only when Crowley tried to yank him upright did he finally move, rising shakily to his feet and stumbling off in the vague direction of, well, nowhere in particular. Catching up with him, Crowley snorted with laughter and the pair wobbled off out of the village. Sniggering at nothing, they left the music and revelry behind and entered the dark coolness of the beyond, a world of mountains and forests and broad stretches of open grass. It was beautiful even at night, the moon and stars lighting the realm below. 

Alone in the pale blue glow of night, they crossed a wide meadow towards the dark river. Crowley was vaguely aware that they were nowhere near the spooky woods that Az’gon called home but the pleasant buzz in his head told him it didn’t really matter where they were. Common sense gradually reared its head, however, and he turned to his friend, who was doing his best not to face-plant the ground at every step. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up and home, awright? You’re a mess.”

Az’gon pouted and looked down at himself, spotting the stains of mead and food as if for the first time. He then nodded in agreement - and then, to Crowley’s surprise, started taking off his clothes. Watching in shock as the other demon did the unthinkable, Crowley fell into silence, too stunned to react as garments were inexplicably peeled off and flung into the long grass. 

“Wait, _ wait_. Not like _ that. _ Just use a miracle!” He managed reluctantly, eager to see what had been hidden for so long but aware of the fact his friend likely wouldn’t be exposing himself if he wasn’t drunk. “C’mon. Sober up. Where the Hell are we?”

Az’gon shrugged and smiled stupidly, and then he took off his mask and mantle, lobbing them aside. 

Crowley suddenly didn’t feel drunk anymore. His breath caught with an emotion that he could not place.

In silence, he took in a now very naked Az’gon. 

Any trace of blonde was gone. A mess of brown curls was the most startling change, flowing into that scruffy beard. The fine shape of his nose was the same but a thick scar crossed the bridge of it, and another cut across one dark eyebrow all the way down to his cheek. The rest of him seemed near enough the same - that broad, stocky form, soft but concealing strength, though now dusted with fine, dark hair, and … scars. Lots of them. 

Crowley fixated on the marks. They were everywhere, thick and crossing each other in strategic patterns like claw marks. Either they had been inflicted by holy weapons or he simply had not been in a position to heal them.

It was heartbreaking. 

Az’gon looked down at himself, seeming to remember why he had covered up in the first place, but he was too drunk to care. He smirked sheepishly and awkwardly covered himself with his arms. 

“Whoopshie daisy,” he said, and then he ambled off towards the river’s edge, naked as the day he was Created. 

Crowley didn’t think he was _ actually _ going to jump in, and certainly, when it happened it was less jumping and more flopping into the water face first, but it meant he was forced to sprint up to the edge of the water and grab Az’gon’s foot before he could go floating off with the current. With a sigh, he sat down and let his bare legs dangle into the flowing water. It was freezing cold, so he used a miracle to warm their surrounding area into something more comfortable. 

Az’gon’s wings started weighing him down, so he righted himself and drifted closer, running his hands back through his now sodden mop of curls. Of his own volition, he wrapped an arm around Crowley’s leg and rested his head against his knee, peering upwards with such vulnerability it was like taking a step back in time. 

“It’s horrible,” he croaked after a moment, his brow pinched with emotion. 

“What is?”

Az’gon looked away, his lower lip wobbling threateningly.

“Me.”

“No. You pack it in right now,” Crowley insisted, his voice cracking a little. Gently, he touched at the rough hand gripping his calf. “What’re you on about?”

“I …” the other demon attempted, utterly haunted by whatever was on his mind. His face rubbed almost wantonly against Crowley’s knee, and the brush of coarse hair against inner thigh ignited a strange sort of thrill. The simple act of touching seemed to have Az’gon in a state, his features creasing with emotion. 

There was only one thing for it upon seeing that. Demons were not necessarily good-hearted by nature. Only when it came to the things that they cared about - and they _ could _ care about things. They could care about them very deeply, as passionately as they could hate. It was only that most of them didn’t actually have anything to care about.

Crowley slipped into the warmed water, dress and all. The tips of his toes danced on the murky bottom of the water. Inching forwards, he slowly enveloped Az’gon into his narrow arms, careful to be as gentle as humanely possible. His friend was tense and uncertain against him, but that thick, warm form gradually relaxed somewhat, a moment of panicked breath slowing.

“Fuck all of them,” Crowley muttered into a freckled shoulder. “_Fuck _ whoever did this to you. We don’t need Heaven or Hell, do we? We’ve got each other. If we play our cards right, we can stay up here together and they’ll leave us alone.”

Something dark pulsing steadily within Az’gon’s body flared at that. It was often difficult to get the gist of what he was feeling, for his demonic emotions were such a jumble it was often difficult to pry one from the other. Just in case he had done something to anger him, Crowley pulled back and found the other’s pupils had dilated some way. Any trace of upset had mysteriously vanished. 

“Are you -“ he began, though was interrupted. It took a moment for the fog of his mind to catch up, and when it finally did, nothing entirely seemed real.

He grunted into the lips pressed against his, though quickly came to accept what was happening even if it wasn’t really the norm. Demons didn’t _ kiss_. They didn’t tend to kiss humans and they especially didn’t kiss each other. There simply was not the need to do it. They did not crave pleasure in the way that humans did, though they could certainly learn to. This was all very new to Crowley, who had only sometimes had such thoughts cross his mind, but he found his heart lifting in elation: this was _ Aziraphale _ he had in his arms, the only being he would even consider letting get this close to him.

He moved into the kiss curiously. How could he not? It was warm and something about it felt … _ nice_. They parted with a soft noise, then rejoined again. And again. They learnt together, gradually opening up into something deeper, finding a rhythm both luxurious and restrained. Crowley instinctively brought his arms around Az’gon’s shoulders and felt his partner trembling intermittently. His own heart was pounding, his corporation as a whole surprisingly affected by something so simple. 

Hands at his waist guided him back to the sheer river’s edge. They were slowly drifting, at least until Crowley found himself pressed against the bank, hands in his hair and soft lips at his throat. He gasped in surprise, then again when a sensitive spot below his ear was sucked at and a sudden flush of heat spread to his cheeks and down his body. 

“Holy shit,” he croaked, “wait -“

Az’gon was off him in an instant and he immediately missed his warmth. The other demon stooped down a small distance away and stared eagerly back at him with eyes wide as dinner plates, half of his face concealed beneath the water. Crowley might have smirked at the sight if he were not so taken aback. Catching his breath, he curiously touched at the spot on his neck that had caused such a reaction. It didn’t feel quite as good, then.

“Are you still drunk?” He asked, prodding about other spots on his neck, now. Az’gon shook his head, still staring unblinkingly up at him. “Right. Neither am I. Erm, that was … new. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Az’gon rose out of the water just enough that he could speak.

“Thinking.”

“And how long were you _ thinking _ about it?”

The other smiled crookedly. “A long time.”

There was that flush of heat again. Had Aziraphale the angel been thinking about such things, too, only far less able to act upon it? Crowley knew he’d had his indulgences, but did it extend as far as intimacy, too? Whatever the case, Az’gon the demon certainly had a hunger that many others did not. To be the object of that hunger was, well … new, and it was especially surprising considering Az’gon’s reluctance to be touched or even looked at the wrong way. Crowley had somehow earned himself a position of exemption. 

He could ask _ why, _but that felt as though it would make things too complicated. Az’gon had only recently Fallen in the scheme of things. He had been hurt, whether by Heaven or Hell was not yet clear. Aziraphale had always enjoyed being pampered, why wouldn’t his demonic self? And Crowley, though new to that sort of thing and not entirely sure how it worked, found himself eager to learn. 

He took too long to dwell on it. Az’gon stood up and wrapped his arms around himself, his brow creasing with regret.

“I - I’m so sorry, I -“

“No. Shut up.” Crowley lurched forwards and brought his arms around the other demon’s neck again. “Show me more.”

The night had other plans, however. 

It was fortunate that they had both miraculously sobered up. They were joined again in a fervent kiss and had been for some minutes, but something brought them pause. A certain stench familiar to them both.

Demons of the more unpleasant sort. 

“Sssshit,” Crowley hissed, quickly dunking Az’gon under the water and looking around. There was nothing just yet, but somebody was on their way; demonic magic was lingering in the air like embers after a fire. Releasing his partner (who flailed in surprise and gasped for air), he flung himself over to the river bank and quickly pulled himself up. Cursing, he dried himself off with a quick miracle and did his best to smother any evidence of what they had just been doing.

Az’gon crawled out a moment later, a miracle tragically covering him in his usual ensemble. He wore the expression of a beaten hound and he kept his stance low, twitching at every small noise that occurred. 

Two bursts of Hellfire nearly sent him flying back into the river again. 

“CRAWLEY!”

Talk about a mood killer.

Crowley briefly closed his eyes, contempt and annoyance immediately roiling in his gut. Taking a strategic step in front of Az’gon, he stood up straight and greeted two of his immediate superiors - Hastur and Ligur, who had appeared within the bursts and were now stalking over to them. 

Ligur stood quietly, sullenly surveying them both with his glowing, amber eyes. Hastur raised his nose in derision and crooked his neck to peer behind Crowley, his black eyes widening upon realising who was there.

“Oh, look, Ligur. The monster’s right there.”

“Seems calm.”

“He does. Good work, Crawley. That beast was trying to bite my head off last I saw him.”

_ Good, _ Crowley thought privately.

“Az’gon, stand up and address your Dukes properly,” Ligur demanded, then he winced and glanced around. “Eurgh. Where’s all that _ lust _ coming from?”

“Party,” Crowley said quickly. “Human party, right over there past that mountain.”

That seemed to satisfy the Dukes, who made no more mention of it. When Az’gon took a slow step out from behind Crowley’s back, the two of them retreated just slightly, watching him as though he was a wild animal that might lash out and chew on their heads at any moment. Hastur had something wrapped around his arm that looked horribly like a whip. Hopefully it was just a precaution.

“And how goes _ your _ assignment, beast?” Hastur asked cruelly, talking to Az’gon in the manner one might talk to a misbehaving dog. “I just had to take minutes in a meeting with Beelzebub and a stinking Archangel discussing you. Heaven’s decided against punishing Hell for your transgression this once, but slip up again and it’s back to Tartarus for you, boy. Ain’t that right, Ligur?”

“Right,” Ligur snarled. “Prove yourself, Fallen. Are your charges heading into battle?”

Az’gon didn’t respond. Desperate, Crowley looked at him and found him frozen, his eyes urgently darting back and forth between the Dukes in panic. _ Tartarus, _Crowley realised, his heart sinking miserably. A name stolen from Greek mythology given to the pits of torture reserved for the worst of mankind, murderers and the like. It wasn’t often that demons were tortured there, too. When they were, it was for crimes against Hell or Heaven alike, and then they were either made extinct or put back to work as empty husks. 

Poor Az’gon had been warped to another time and place. He had phased out entirely.

“Speak!” Hastur demanded, gesturing furiously. “Crawley, get him to talk. Beelzebub is in a foul mood and demanding updates, you must understand!”

“The Vikings are marching on Eoforwic in a month and a half,” Crowley said flatly, fighting with all his might to keep his intense hatred for the demons at bay. He wanted to take that whip and strangle them both with it, or better yet, strike them repeatedly until they were on their knees begging for mercy. He couldn’t allow himself to sink into such a pleasing fantasy in case he never emerged from it. “Everything’s going to plan, guys. He’s got the Viking Warlords wrapped around his little finger. It’s just a matter of time.”

_ Bloody idiots. _They had beseeched Heaven for mercy and yet were warring with them all at once. The conflict was ridiculousness that he wanted no part in, but a life on Earth meant that he was continuously pulled into their affairs. 

Ligur and Hastur were too blind to see how stupid it all was. Crowley wished that they would just bugger off back to their smelly offices and rot there.

The Dukes looked at each other and nodded, though Hastur took a bold step forwards and jabbed a finger in Az’gon’s direction.

“Train him to talk again. He’s a bloody embarrassment, Crawley! Lord Beelzebub wants a functional demon out of him and you’re going to give it. Maybe you’ll get yourself another _flowery little_ _commendation_,” he said mockingly, pulling a face. “Get to it. And take that horrible flower out of your hair while you’re at it. All hail Satan!”

“All hail Satan,” growled Ligur.

“All hail Satan,” said Crowley, though what he really meant was _ I am going to choke you with your own nostril hairs. _

“Mnggh,” said Az’gon, twitching. 

It wasn’t that Az’gon had lost his mind, after all. That had been an ignorant and even cruel assumption. 

It was that he was coping and had been coping alone for far too long. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how he had managed to keep his temper in check. He watched the Dukes disappear and withheld all the wicked curses that he could have uttered in that moment; they would have rustled a few demonic feathers, to be sure. Relief overpowered his murderous urges and he quickly turned to his friend, finding him still frozen in place. 

“It’s all right, they’ve gone,” he attempted, reaching to put a hand on Az’gon’s shoulder.

That was wrong. In a startling turn of events, Az’gon roared and wrenched himself away, almost falling over in his haste to separate himself. With an agonised, beastly howl, he pulled his sword from his belt and with a beat of his great wings he was taking to the sky, his grief freeing itself and raining down onto the previously serene meadows below. Crowley immediately feared for whoever was about to find themselves at the mercy of the demon as he barrelled through the skies away from the place Hastur and Ligur had just stood. Away from Crowley.

Threat though he was, Crowley’s fondness for him had sort of blossomed within the last twenty minutes or so and existed there in turmoil alongside his sudden fear and his anger towards Hell.

Unfurling his wings, he too took to the night sky. 


	4. No Mere Fantasy

“Oh, for fuck sake.”

A monastery was burning. Probably not the first and probably not the last. 

It didn’t matter so much if it was Vikings doing it. Well, it _ did _matter to Crowley because they were invading people who had no chance of defending themselves, but if a demon was destroying a holy place and Heaven caught whiff of it, there’d be Hell to pay. Literally.

He could have killed Hastur and Ligur. The Dukes’ surprise visit had set off something in Az’gon, a violence that had not existed in the largely peaceful Aziraphale - or perhaps it had been there, buried deep down where his better nature had always come out on top. The initial purpose of Principalities had been to fight and defend, and it seemed demonhood had a way of turning that purpose up on its head.

The monastery burnt with blue fire. Crowley swooped in from the sky, watching in dismay as monks ran out of the beautiful, old building in their pyjamas carrying all the possessions they could, scrolls and precious Bibles and ornate crucifixes. Some of them were _ on _fire, rolling in the grass and screaming to the high heavens. Crowley found it in him to wave a hand and call back the fire that was harming anyone - they might have been on the side of the Lord but they were only humans, certainly not the sort that knew how to wield weapons, and they had not done anything to deserve what was happening to them now. 

He flew in closer and smothered the flames with his own power, clearing blocked exits and pulling the smoke from the lungs of humans succumbing to it. The rest of the fire he took over and turned orange to lessen suspicion; an orange fire could be _ any _fire, but blue was more clearly something supernatural and thus worth the attention of Heaven.

Cursing repeatedly under his breath, Crowley soared over the building in search of any survivors and spotted Az’gon in the courtyard. The demon was wrenching stone pillars from their foundations with his bare hands and throwing them against an enormous, stone cross in the middle of the scorched grass. Bricks and sharp shards of stone went flying in every direction, and fire exploded in the doorways, threatening the monks still trying to escape. 

Enraged, Crowley stormed up to his friend and seized him by the front of his tunic, throwing him against the nearest wall. Az’gon snarled viscerally, tears cutting down the soot on his face. He did not try to fight back.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Crowley bellowed, firmly forcing Az’gon back into the wall a second time and pressing in close to hold him there. “What the Hell’s gotten into you? They’d be fucking dead if it wasn’t for me sweeping in and clearing up your mess. If you think that’s what I’m going to be doing while I’m up here then you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not here to fix your wretched mistakes!”

“Then don’t! I told you to leave, Crowley!”

“I’m not just gonna leave you behind. Calm down and let’s get out of here before bloody Heaven turns up to give you the ol’ what for. C’mon!”

Az’gon didn’t move. He was shaking violently, his gaze turning up towards the exposed stars, and then his features contorted beneath that infernal mask. It was sorrow and hatred the likes of which should never have befallen him in the first place, but there it was, terrible and agonising even to behold. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Az’gon cried out, and he finally wrenched himself from Crowley’s grip. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!” Overcome with despair, he charged back across the courtyard and dropped to his knees in front of the great, stone cross, holding the base of it with both hands. That had to have stung. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING - I DIDN’T _ DO ANYTHING!_” Az’gon howled, aggressively shaking the cross so hard that the base began to crack. His head slammed forwards against it, then again and again - “IT. WASN’T. MY. FAULT!”

Crowley had seen enough. As the cross finally toppled into the side of the monastery to be consumed by flames, he drifted forwards and knelt behind Az’gon to pull him back against his chest, holding his head fast. 

“It wasn’t the humans’ fault, either,” he said softly but urgently, wrapping an arm around his friend’s neck to restrain him. “Whatever it was. It wasn’t their fault. This isn’t you, is it? You know better. _ Show me _ you still know better.”

“We’re demons, it’s what we do!”

Wounded by that, Crowley tightened his arm around Az’gon’s neck, pulling him taut against himself. 

“Being a demon isn’t an excuse to hurt innocent people. It’s _ not. _ Don’t be like the others, Az’gon. You’re better than them. _ So _ much better.”

Az’gon shook his head aggressively and whined through his teeth, pawing weakly at the arm holding him fast.

“No, no, no, no, no -“

“Stop. They’re gone, angel. They’re gone. It’s just me and you. Take a moment. Just breathe, slowly.”

A burning monastery hardly provided the most relaxing atmosphere, but somehow his encouragement seemed to work. It took a few minutes for the whining and struggling to stop completely, and Crowley had a few near misses with a pair of ragged wings, but gradually Az’gon ceased and then covered his eyes with his hands, curling up into a tight ball. His back shook with silent, strained sobs, a maelstrom of bad emotions spilling from him in waves, so many that it was impossible to keep track. Crowley felt his own throat tightening in response. Hot tears formed in his eyes and he quickly wiped them away, nearly choking on the sorrow and sympathy that had arisen in response to his dear friend’s pain. As if it couldn’t get worse, what Az’gon mumbled next could have torn his heart into two.

“She left me,” the demon cried into his hands. “She wasn’t there. Couldn’t feel her, She was gone. She let them take me!”

“I know,” Crowley murmured softly, a familiar, lonely sort of feeling opening up like a ravine in his chest. “I understand. She left me, too. It hurts like Hell, but y’know what?” Carefully trying to pull Az’gon’s hands away from his face, he leaned over him until he could see him properly. “There you are. Y’know what? I met you. You helped me, even if you didn’t really know it. You were better than any of them. _ Are _better. You gave me a very precious gift the day we met.”

Given pause, Az’gon blinked away his tears and peered with renewed curiosity up at his old friend. Sitting up, he wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked thoroughly confused. 

“I - I didn’t have anything precious on me. I’d already given the sword away.”

And there in that ravine of loneliness, a warm glow of light banished away all the darkness and emptiness within. Affection, sincere and unbridled, just like that day all those years ago. It wormed into his heart and reminded him that he was more than what they had made him, that he could still have a life of his own and make a difference. He still had a _ choice _. And he wasn’t alone. Not anymore. 

“Moron,” Crowley said with a small smile, and he huffed with laughter. “You gave me hope. If somebody like you existed then, well … maybe it all wasn’t so bad after all.”

Az’gon put a finger on his chest as if to say, ‘me?’ 

“Right. And if you carry on with stuff like this, they’re gonna take you away from me. Do you understand?”

Thankfully, the implications of that seemed to sink in.

The Hellfire roaring across the monastery slowly began to ebb. It shrank back towards the Earth, not quite snuffing out but instead sinking into the soil to return from whence it came. The smoke sank downwards, too, soaking into the ground like water into a sponge, leaving behind no trace of smell or even scorch marks. By the end, it seemed as though the holy settlement had only been ransacked, which was commonplace. Not destroyed by fire. 

Wooden beams creaked and groaned. The toppled stone cross fell that bit further into the wall it was buried into. Crowley stared at it accusingly for a moment, then got to his feet, wings spreading. 

“Come on. We’ll have to fly out to avoid the sanctified ground. Are you with me?” He held out his hand, silently begging for affirmation. 

Az’gon took it and slowly stood up. All the upset and anger seemed to have disappeared with the Hellfire - he was as blank-faced as the glass effigy of Jesus in a broken window close by. Whatever thoughts were occupying his mind, he was present enough to join Crowley as he took flight, and they took to the shadows to avoid being seen by very confused and devastated monks. Hopefully, they would put it down to a freak fire and nothing more. 

Grateful to escape, Crowley kept Az’gon in his sights at all times as they flew southward back towards more familiar land. He silently fretted, hoping dearly that his friend had listened and would not fall prey to an inherent evil like most Fallen angels did. He understood well enough how difficult it was, but he was still clueless as to why Az’gon had been forced to endure additional suffering. All he knew was that Hastur and Ligur had had a hand in it. They had probably enjoyed every second of it, the cruel, ugly bastards. 

But they hadn’t smothered the intertwined flames of Aziraphale and Crowley. Not yet, at least.

Finding the spooky woods again was almost a relief. Delving down into the crooked, deadened trees and the blue-lit lanterns that floated aimlessly between them, Crowley landed elegantly within the stone rings and Az’gon bounced off several branches before landing and stumbling over, spiky twigs poking out of his wing feathers. Together, they entered the cosy, stone house and Az’gon forwent even bothering to eat, instead flopping down onto his bed and staying there, unmoving.

Thunderous snores erupted from him mere seconds later. It took an enormous effort to get him to roll over onto his back, given his wings, and he grunted noisily in protest when his mask and gauntlets were removed. Joining him on the bed, Crowley held his head in his lap and stroked a hand through those messy, dark curls, urging his friend into a deep, calming sleep. 

Aziraphale had never slept. He probably wouldn’t have snored like a boar stuffed up with cold, either. Things changed. He was still as beautiful now as he was back then, just in ways that were more difficult to see. Very difficult once his temper got going, but there they were regardless: his good heart, the way he could somehow be very clever and very stupid all at once. His lovely face, which really wasn’t that different if one was fortunate enough to get close. 

Once the snores had quietened into a slow, peaceful breathing, Crowley lowered Az’gon’s head down onto a pillow and shifted to lie down next to him. Certain he was fully asleep, he brushed errant curls out of the troubled demon’s face and rested his forehead there in the crook of a warm neck, fearing that if he let him go for even a moment, he would just disappear. 

Soppy fool. It didn’t matter. Nobody was around to see it.

“I love you,” he murmured into skin that smelt like Autumn and fallen rain.

* * *

Az’gon slept for an entire week, the lucky thing.

Finding it impossible to rouse him a couple of days after the monastery incident, Crowley relented and instead tucked him up into a warm cocoon of throws, something he would vehemently deny if mentioned. He ventured into the village instead, keeping his presence known and sought after. He healed some scraped knees, plagues, and even communed with a few deceased warriors that were hanging around for the sake of their worried wives. It was, after all, the time of year where the veil between the living and the spirits of those departed became thinner. Translucent. 

Aware of this, Halfdan and Ivar summoned Crowley to their hall one clear night when the moon was at its fullest. They had prepared a full fire ready to host their seeress, and when Crowley entered the building at long last, they greeted him as one might greet royalty. Halfdan dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against Crowley’s knuckles, much to the demon’s amusement.

Ivar was not able to kneel - one of his legs was deformed and thin from the knee down, earning him the perhaps cruel moniker Ivar the Boneless, but if the tales were true, the young man was just as formidable a warrior as his brother and he took the name in his stride. He inclined his head towards Crowley and welcomed him towards the table. There was a cup of wine waiting - at least, Crowley hoped it was wine - and a pair of skulls fashioned into cups. Halfdan and Ivar grinned and drank beer from the skulls as if it wasn’t one of the grossest things the demon had ever seen in his centuries of existence. 

As not to appear ungrateful, he sipped at the wine and found it acceptable enough. Anything that wasn’t goat’s blood would have been acceptable at that point. 

“Lokadottir, we thought you might indulge us in a ritual!” Halfdan said enthusiastically, and Crowley almost choked on his second sip. 

“What kind of ritual?”

“We’re ready to hear of our fates,” Ivar pressed, beaming. 

Crowley looked between them both, frankly concerned by their willingness to hear of their likely gory and unpleasant deaths at the hands of Saxons. He also feared he might be entirely engulfed in beard if they deigned to take another step closer. 

“Well, y’know, the thing about fortune is that most people hear it and then they change it in their effort to make it real. Or … well, fate isn’t always kind, is it? You lot die so easily.”

“Yes, we die and go to Valhalla to enjoy an eternity of beer and fighting!” With that, Halfdan merrily slammed his skull cup down onto the table and laughed, wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “We are Ostmen! We do not fear death, seeress. We bring death to lesser men! I want to hear if we capture those Saxon kings, Aelle and Osbert, and bring them the suffering they deserve. May Hel welcome them into her lands of misery.”

Surprised to feel a sudden grief wafting in from the pair, Crowley focused on it a moment, remembering to make a show of closing his eyes and waving his long fingers about a bit. It probably just looked like he was stroking an invisible cat mid air. 

“Hm … I feel that you both lost somebody dear to you,” the demon announced with flourish. “Maybe, er, a close relative, or -“

“Yes. _ Amazing_,” Ivar said firmly, his blue eyes practically bulging out of his head in awe. “Our father, Ragnar. He was murdered by King Aelle!”

“Thrown into a pit of snakes,” Halfdan followed sadly, shaking his head. 

Crowley bit his tongue. It was almost as if they were surprised that their father had met his death invading a land that didn’t belong to him. 

“Awful. Just awful,” he managed. “I was horrified to hear of that crime besmirching these fair lands, let me tell you. I had no idea he was your father. Well, shall we see if justice will be met?”

The Warlords scrambled to sit down on the nearest chairs like children about to hear their favourite story. 

Thankfully, a few nights spent perusing Az’gon’s scrolls had taught him a thing or two about the practices of real seeresses, and he had gathered a few choice substances into the small pouches on his belt just in case he was ever in need of proving himself. Proving himself, however, did not seem to be a problem: the Vikings were hanging off his every word, and he went so far as to wonder if he could have a little fun with it as he went. 

“I suspected your request,” Crowley lied, opening up one of the pouches to take a pinch of a dark power within. It was henbane, a known hallucinogen. Reaching forth, he deposited the powder into the brothers’ beer, and then even miracled a dramatic _ fwoosh _ of purple clouds from the openings of the skulls. 

The two Warlords gasped and quickly picked up their drinks. Before the demon could even ask them to partake in it, they both downed their beer as if they might die if they stopped. It poured down their braided beards onto their tunics but they paid it no mind, probably because half of their dinner was staining them already. 

Crowley blinked, momentarily taken aback by their enthusiasm.

“Er,” he grumbled, raising his wine. After pretending to take a pinch of the henbane, he took another small sip. “Right. I invite you on this journey with me, Warlords. Be warned that the threads of fate are never as straightforward as you might think.” Placing his wine down, he remained stood and held his hands out, closing his eyes for dramatic effect. This probably wasn’t how things usually went, but nobody was questioning him. “I invite ye spirits of old to enter this hall. Good spirits of the earth, the trees, the sky. Spirits of the lost. Erm, join us in this … whatever it is, join us in finding the paths to the future of Eoforwic!”

The candles lighting the hall flickered out, then lit themselves again. Crowley opened one eye just slightly to gauge the reactions. 

Halfdan and Ivar were beside themselves with terror. Good. 

Using another miracle to speed up the effects of the henbane, the demon watched as the two men suddenly seemed overcome with weariness. They yawned, fighting to stay awake and watch the show, but before long their heads were lolling back and forth and they were drooling. They weren’t deeply asleep, though they were definitely dreaming extremely vividly given the amusing changes in their expressions.

“Beautiful puppies,” mumbled Halfdan serenely, trying to tickle something invisible near his chest. His features creased in utter betrayal, then, and he began aggressively shaking his hand as if there was something attached to it. “Oh, no. Bears! BEARS!”

Crowley sniggered. Meanwhile, Ivar was engaging in fisticuffs with an unknown assailant. With a little help from the nearby demon, the dream assailant turned into one of the much despised Saxon kings, and Ivar tried to strangle the man in response, his hands gripping tightly around nothing. The bears attacking Halfdan turned into Christian soldiers. Taking back his wine, Crowley took a few neat steps back and enjoyed the show, taking care to manipulate the intense dreams whenever necessary. 

“You’re going to win Eoforwic,” he informed them, though it was likely falling on deaf ears. The pair were stood up in the belief they were swordfighting by that point. “You will have some of this country or none of it and you’ll be bloody grateful.”

“Ivar, behold! Flaming arrows! I’ll save you!” Halfdan yelled, diving into his brother so fiercely that the pair went flying back into the table. Beer and crockery were catapulted into the air. As if they had heard or even sensed the chaos unfolding in the hall, a group of men outside cheered drunkenly in response. 

As he watched, something sharp suddenly pinched at the side of the demon’s neck. He jumped slightly at the severity of it and slapped a hand quickly down on whatever had dared touch him, and he was disturbed to find that something palm-sized and squishy had landed upon his person. 

Scowling, Crowley pulled the creature up to his face. It was a pixie, gnashing its sharp little teeth at him, its bug-eyes wild in a blood-fuelled frenzy. Touching at his neck again, he found blood on his fingers.

“You little _ gremlin_. Where did you come from?” Crowley demanded, pinching the creature at the base of its wings so that it couldn’t bite his hand. The pixie just hissed viciously at him in response.

The presence of an unnatural creature suggested that His Highness was finally awake and back at it. 

With his Deed of the Day near enough complete, the demon snapped his fingers and the two sparring Warlords immediately stopped what they were doing, their dreams having mysteriously ceased. Obediently did they return to their respective chairs and sit back down, snoring.

“In five minutes you’ll wake up and make what you will of your visions,” he commanded. “You’ll assume I mysteriously disappeared into the aether or something. Go to bed and _ sleep, _ you idiots. You can’t fight a war on beer alone no matter what your gods tell you.”

And in five minutes they would do just that. Meanwhile, there was something curious that needed tending to.

With that inspiration achieved, Crowley smirked at them and left the hall, quite satisfied with himself. Taking care to hide the pixie as best he could, he headed once again for the path between the mountains. It was pitch black there in the valleys once the village had been left behind, but fortunately the angry little creature in his hand gave off a sort of purplish glow and shook shining glitter angrily off its body like a tarantula would shed its hairs. Ignoring its high-pitched arguments, he held it aloft and found his way back to the woods. 

He moved through it with more confidence now. After all, he had hardly used the small home the Vikings had given him, instead choosing to spend most of his time in Az’gon’s mysterious dwelling over the past three weeks. His confidence did dwindle, however, when _ things _ began to move in the shadows beyond the trees. There were often _ things _ there, but there did seem to be more than usual. 

It seemed as though he’d have to get used to it. Creating monsters and strange creatures was Az’gon’s intriguing, if strange new hobby. It would just be matter of keeping an eye on it and making sure it didn’t go _ too _ far. 

He passed a banshee on the way, who had paid him no mind up there in her tree. Probably hungry for humans, not for demons. Approaching the stream near the stone rings, he also came face to face with a real life troll and thought wistfully back to when things like that had merely been a joke to scare Vikings with. 

The troll, twice as tall as him and wearing a pumpkin as a hat, stomped over and held out its great, grey hand before he could so much as touch the water. 

“PAY!”

Crowley sighed and felt about himself. In a moment of epiphany, he held forwards the pixie in offering. 

“NO. BITEY!”

“They are, aren’t they? Blasted things.” With that, he miracled a Viking coin into his hand and flipped it in troll’s direction. The beast immediately dropped and it fell to all fours to desperately try and find it. “Little to the left.”

“AHAH!”

“There we go. Can I pass without you bludgeoning me with that great big club of yours?”

“GUH.”

“All right, cool. Don’t spend it all at once.”

Leaving the troll to sit and admire the golden coin, Crowley moved on, wondering if he could possibly come across anything else during the short journey back to the house. Fortunately, the wards that guarded the stone rings were all that he encountered, and they never posed a problem for him. It was more for the likes of people or demons with bad intentions. 

As he approached the house, he saw light and smoke bursting from the seams of the door and even from the chimney in intermittent blasts, changing colour each time. Blue, purple, green, back to blue again. Almost dreading what he was about to find inside, Crowley very slowly opened the door and peeped past it.

The cauldron had grown in size and was now sat over a fire in the centre of the house. Something wicked and colourful bubbled within, emitting those magical explosions whenever a new ingredient was tossed in. Az’gon stood over the cauldron in his full garb like a warlock or, well, like a demon, the light casting him in a terrible glow as he hummed a little tune and stirred at the concoction with a stick. 

“So that’s how you do it, is it? D’you mind telling me how you pulled a troll out of that?” Crowley greeted him, strolling in and taking a quick look around the disaster that was the mess occupying every surface. “Oh, and one of your pixies bit me. Look! You can’t let those things escape!” Drawing nearer, he bent his neck to show off the wound, but Az’gon wasn’t really looking. 

Instead, his friend took the pixie and inspected it thoughtfully a moment - and then lobbed it into the hot concoction as if it were a mere ingredient. Crowley blinked in surprise, mouth falling open. 

“Ngh. Well, then.” The bubbling potion turned purple and exploded with glitter. Crowley batted it away from him and quickly made his way over to the bed; it seemed the safest place to be, just in case Az’gon started eyeing _ him _ up as a potential ingredient. “Did you sleep all right?”

“Oh! Yes. Many pleasant dreams. I assume that was you, dear. Thank you.” Az’gon dipped a finger into the potion and tasted it, whether out of necessity or curiosity, it was unclear. “Good timing. It could do with some serpent scales.”

Dammit.

“You are _ not _ putting any of me in _ that_.”

“Oh, why not? There’s plenty of me in it.” Frowning, he went in for another taste. “Maybe too much. Bitter. Hm … might be another banshee without the scales.”

“I said no. Will you c’mere? I sort of wanted to pick up from where we were interrupted. In the river, I mean.”

Ah. There was the curious matter, rearing its head. It had taken a lot to admit it. Nerves, mostly. However, Crowley found himself unheard as Az’gon continued muttering to himself. Sighing agitatedly, he fell back flat on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to summon his courage yet further. 

It wasn’t that he was scared of what they had done - only in the sense it would likely be looked down upon by Hell. No, he had enjoyed it a good deal while it had lasted. He had liked being so close to a warm, strong body, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it the whole week his partner had been entrenched in sleep. What he truly feared was the emotional side of it. He hadn’t ever really been good at that. He didn’t like having them on show too much and falling into bed with someone seemed a sure way of doing that. 

But he did love Az’gon. Always had, always would. There was no questioning it. If there was anyone he would explore new, pleasant worlds with, it was him. And he had been deliberating long and hard about it over the past several days, craving the touch that he had been so rudely deprived of by nosy Dukes of Hell. 

Now, Crowley had tempted people into seduction many times. It was part and parcel of his job. The thing was, he didn’t really know how to do it himself. It wasn’t like he stuck around to watch the fireworks go off. That would just be weird.

Arranging himself on his side, he hitched up the skirt of his dress a little and made sure plenty of his thigh was on display through the generous slit in the coarse fabric. If Az’gon hungered for the carnal as much as he did other pleasures, then surely he would get the message. 

“Oi, I was talking to you,” Crowley called over. “I said that I wanted to pick up from where we left off.”

“Pick what up?” Az’gon turned just as a scroll was being thrown his way. Reaching desperately to catch it after it smacked into his face, it bounced out of his hands several times before he finally ensnared it, growling. “Crowley! This scroll is two-hundred years old! You -“ Then, he stopped. 

Noticed. Considered. 

The scroll was thrown unceremoniously to the corner of the room. Az’gon waved a hand and killed the fire underneath the cauldron. In the same movement, the candlelight changed from blue to a normal and far softer orange. 

“Romantic,” Crowley commented, moving elegantly onto his back to show as much of himself off as possible. One of his long legs bent, and the skirt fell back to reveal more long, slender thigh. With a sly smile, he stretched his arms up past his head and sighed woefully. “Ah, well, if you don’t want to then I won’t press the matter.”

Az’gon made a strained noise that sounded like “hngh”. So far, so good. Well, the whole point was to have some fun, too, wasn’t it?

Now, Crowley did not enjoy being the centre of attention. What he did enjoy was being looked at as though he was more desirable than some old scrolls and trinkets. He came to realise that particular expression on the other demon’s face was not necessarily just to be associated with food. No, his lust was very real, it was apparently all part of that particular demonic package deal, but like good food, it was something that could be shared. 

Just in case, Crowley had made sure to give himself necessary parts not a few days prior. It was a complicated affair; it wasn’t like he saw them often and they were difficult to get right, plus they came with certain … inwardy bits that were even more complicated. He was satisfied with what he had, now. It was soft and a little bit confusing in that it took him by surprise with odd sensations every now and again, but it was something to get used to. 

“I do want,” Az’gon said breathlessly, and Crowley felt the beginnings of a prickling warmth down there between his legs. “I want you, but it’s my hunger to bear. You don’t have to -“

“D’you think I’m just doing this for you? That’s only half of it,” Crowley insisted. Sitting up, he reached behind himself and tried to pull on the laces at his back. “I’m doing it for me, too.”

Az’gon stared a moment longer, then threw himself forwards.


	5. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, guys. I’ve been busy with far more boring things. I’m not entirely happy with this chapter and got very frustrated with it (and AO3 was kind enough to delete all my formatting!!). Anyway, land ho, there be sex ahead.

**Badon, Britain. 515 AD.**

**(‘Come, visite our natural hotte springs, but mayke sure to returneth alle stolen clothes lest ye be cursed withe fleas and suche by the Heathen goddess Sulis.’)**

  


“Where’d he get that fancy sword, then?”

Atop a muddy hill, an angel was watching a battle unfold in the chilly early morning hours. He wore silver armour and a mantle of fur, casting an impressive silhouette against the dark grey sky. Though he was dressed for war, he made no attempt to take part in the series of brawls and screams and clashing of swords and spears below, instead regarding the ruckus with the faintest expression of irritation. 

Crowley awkwardly made his way up the hill to join him, similarly encased in heavy armour, though his was black. Naturally. Kind of cool looking, but really difficult to walk in and he was sure he had never sweated so much in his entire life, and he had been a frequent visitor of Hell’s magma pools back in the day. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted, his tone as stiff as Crowley’s ambling. “I received another memo from upstairs. They said to bury a sword in a stone in the woods and make sure he found it. They must have gotten the idea from my report on the local mythology: Excalibur can only be wielded by the rightful king of Britain. The Britons are rallying under his reign, you know.”

Crowley scoffed lightly. “Excalibur? Has his shield got a name, too?”

“Oh, yes. Wynebgwrthucher,” the angel recited proudly.

“Bless you.” Crowley raised his eyebrows and uncomfortably tugged at the chain mail between his legs. “What about the lance?”

Aziraphale briefly side-eyed Crowley, his lips pursing.

“Ron.”

“You what?” The demon’s narrow mouth turned upwards in a smirk. “Ron as in Ronald? The heroic Arthur Pendragon, champion of the Britons, called his fearsome lance ‘Ronald?’”

“Well, it’s short for something, obviously!”

“Yeah. _Ronald_.”

“I don’t know, Crowley! I’ve had more important things to focus on than remembering the names of all the individuals in Arthur’s arsenal.”

Crowley scoffed. “I’ll kick him right in the arsenal, big-headed bastard. He’s been telling blokes some hot babe in a lake gave it to him. Did you know that? All your hard work reduced to nonsense.”

“Whatever might instill fear in the hearts of the Saxons, I suppose. Speaking of which, they’re getting _their_ … arsenals handed to them by the looks of things. They’ll be surrendering by breakfast.” Aziraphale sighed wantonly. “Oh, I hope the cook survives. He’s truly a magician with venison. Say, forgo the armour and maybe you could slip in unnoticed for a bite to eat.”

Crowley considered a moment, tugging at the chain mail between his legs from the rear side, this time. 

“Hm. Can’t. Got a, er, meeting with an agent of mine. Morgan le Fay. She’s not gonna be happy about the whole sword business. I should get Hell to give her a cool wand called … I don’t know. Sharon?”

With a withering expression, Aziraphale turned his attention back to the battle ensuing below the hill.

“Ah, yes, that red-headed sorceress is an agent of yours, is she? I heard that nobody has ever properly seen her eyes, you know. She must be shy.”

“Shy?” Crowley bleated, offended. “Well, I heard that the noble Sir Fell has never been seen in a room at the same time as Merlin. Bit of a weird coincidence if you ask me.”

“Nobody is asking you,” the angel retorted somewhat snidely. “Shouldn’t you be down there helping your people? Look at them, they know this is a lost cause. Oh - oh dear, that one just got _disemboweled_. Did you see that?”

“I’m not much good with a sword, truth be told. Never have been. ‘Sides, we might be losing this battle but we’re not gonna lose the war, you know. It’s obvious.”

“Is it? Is that why you’re too busy for breakfast?”

It was fortunate that Crowley’s helmet concealed most of his face, otherwise Aziraphale would be privy to the smirk that currently occupied the demon’s sharp features. 

That the pair bumped into each other every now and then was no accident. It was no secret where the Heavenly field agent was at any given time; his familiar aura was like a beacon that Crowley could sort of feel wherever he was on Earth, and it was easy to lock on to that pleasant ball of holy, glowy energies to locate his supposed adversary. If he actually gave half a damn about his assignments, and if he was actually wicked by nature, he would have been able to hinder the progress of Heaven on Earth with ease. 

As it was, he simply liked to run in to Aziraphale. They had an Arrangement. They would pretend to foil each other to keep balance on Earth. Technically, they were colleagues, though Aziraphale liked to remind him every so often that they were indeed enemies, even while inviting the demon to join him for a meal. 

They were a bit more than colleagues. They were friends, if one cared to put a label to their relationship. They liked to be together, even if often under the guise of aloofness, spending much of their time bickering but otherwise enjoying each other’s company. Crowley had spent more time than he liked to admit contemplating it all, and he had come to the reluctant conclusion long ago that maybe, just maybe, he actually loved Aziraphale. 

It was a bit embarrassing, really. Annoying and highly inconvenient. A demon loving an angel. It would have seemed less ridiculous the other way around, but then again, angels were colder and perhaps even more callous than any demon could hope to be. While decidedly a lot more amicable and honestly good than his angelic siblings, Aziraphale could have his moments. It was par for the course at the end of the day - he was a Principality and bound by the purpose of his Creation, but he was also clever enough to bend the rules when it suited him. 

Crowley had come to terms with his feelings long ago. Well, it wasn’t like he could do anything about it. Hell would destroy him and Heaven would punish Aziraphale. They were celestial entities, they didn’t need to act upon it like humans did, and he really didn’t want to ruin what they had by actually admitting it. At least this way he got to be close to the angel every now and then, even if they were separated by thick, clunky armour and the trifling wars of mankind. 

Glancing over at his companion, he was met with a subtly beseeching gaze. Big, grey-blue eyes peering at him. Beautiful and clever and absolutely wretched. Crowley pouted teasingly in response, though was moved enough by the silent entreating that he actually caught himself reconsidering his plans for the day.

“Oh, for … no. _No_. Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like _that_, that’s what. The Black Knight has been summoned to the court of Morgan le Fay, I’ll have you know. She’ll turn me into a toad if I miss it.”

Aziraphale made a noise that sounded like ‘tcchkk’, rolling his eyes. 

“You’ll transform into a toad for missing the meeting that you’re going to have with yourself, you mean? Well, the latest rumour at the Round Table is that the dread sorceress has a bit of a soft spot for Arthur. That’s why he keeps winning.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. Suffering a moment of panic and disbelief, he quickly recovered and raised his eyebrows in a show of amusement, instead. 

“Is that what Arthur’s knights do all day? Sit around the legendary Round Table gossiping? Do you really think somebody as beautiful and intelligent as Morgan le Fay could have a soft spot for that self-righteous gimboid with a fancy sword and a lance called Ron? He’s not her type.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale looked pointedly towards the battle raging below the hill. “Sorceresses have a type, do they? How interesting.”

“You lot are the ones pairing her with _Arthur_. I might just be sick inside my armour.”

Crowley could have sworn the bastard angel smiled at that. 

“Oh, dear. You’ll be wearing it.”

“Yeah. Your fault. You and your mother’s meeting you’ve got going on at Camelot. Look, why don’t you miracle your way in to the Black Knight’s grove later today and try out the Saxon cooking?”

“It really can’t be that different to the Britons’ cooking,” Aziraphale replied, though seemed touched by the offer. “Best not. Heaven are keeping a close eye on my whereabouts. I was reprimanded for venturing as far as Celliwig a month ago. I divulged in a pheasant and there the note was, coiled up inside. _Apparently_ I was too far from the place of objective.”

Perturbed and disappointed by the news, Crowley had enough sense not to show it. Awkwardly turning about a bit, he worriedly looked around the stark forests and blood-stained meadows to make sure that they weren’t being watched. 

“Maybe we should have a fight,” he suggested casually. “A real one. With swords. Just to keep up appearances.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale replied quietly, looking as concerned by the idea as Crowley felt. “Erm …”

“It’s all right. Just try not to discorporate me if you can help it. Anyway, your Britons must be wondering why you’re stood up here not killing anything, so have at it. It’ll keep Heaven off your back.”

“Oh, well, I …” Reluctantly drawing his sword, the angel stiffly turned to face Crowley, hands twisting about the pommel of the suddenly rather dangerous looking weapon. “You know, I’m not down there because I don’t like fighting, though I’m not very good at pretending to be bad at it, either. The Great War was a _nightmare_.”

“Tell me about it,” Crowley muttered, drawing his own sword. Pausing, he regarded his adversary with confusion. “Wait, what? You pretended to be -“

“Sssshhhshhh! Really, now!”

The pair began to slowly circle each other. Aziraphale held his sword as it should have been held, while Crowley favoured holding his in two hands with it lifted somewhere over his shoulder. Sincere puzzlement stopped the demon from making any sort of attempt at feigning a strike, his serpentine eyes solidly yellow and fixed on the now very nervous looking angel, who seemed no closer to making a move than he was. 

“Why would you do that? Weren’t you a soldier?”

“Well, yes, but … it didn’t really feel, um …” Aziraphale gulped and cast a nervous glance around. “Right. It didn’t feel right. I’ve never killed anything. Especially not then. Goodness, if the Archangels find out -“

“Shut up, then,” the demon interrupted, taken aback. If he was hearing correctly, the uptight and morally staunch angel that was his best friend had defied the orders of his superiors those thousands of years ago and played less of a part in the War than he should have. How many demons had been let off the hook just because one Principality had decided that the War just didn’t sit right with him? Crowley reckoned that he might have been one of them; Aziraphale would have had every right to strike him down that day in Eden. He hadn’t. Instead, he had offered the demon shelter beneath his wing. Overwhelmed, Crowley dropped the tip of his blade back to the Earth and stared at his friend gormlessly as wave upon wave of warm, unfiltered love washed through him.

“I’ve told you that in confidence, mind you. If they think I am any _more_ inept they might remove me from Earth entirely.”

“Shut up,” Crowley croaked again. “Don’t give them a chance to hear you, then. Who do you think I’ll be telling, exactly? Do you think I’ll just pop along to Heaven, all ‘oh, hello Archangel Michael, have I got just the tea for you’?”

“Well. We _are_ enemies.”

“Oh, no we’re bloody not. Don’t give me that. What about that time I saved you from being discorporated by Leviathan? Would’ve been a nasty way to go, wouldn’t it? Would I have done that if I was secretly plotting your downfall, eh? Come on, swing at me.”

Aziraphale made a move, though it was so half-hearted that Crowley easily intercepted it. Their blades lightly clashed in what was more a show of comraderie than aggression. Neither of them made any attempt to strike again, gazing at where their blades were joined with some surprise, and then Aziraphale smiled the kind of smile that could banish rain clouds in favour of sunlight (indeed, the morning dreariness did seem to ebb in its wake). 

Crowley did not quite know what to do with that smile. He never did. Something told him to meet it with his own, but it would surely pale by comparison. Entirely entranced when the angel moved closer, his heart began to slam wildly in his chest and he fought desperately to be cool, stay cool, maybe this is _it_ -

A hand pushed squarely at his chest. Surprised, the demon took several unbalanced steps backwards and then stumbled like a tower of tin cans, toppling onto his back and then sliding some distance down the hill. Helpless as an upturned tortoise, he stared up at the sky in affront when he finally came to a standstill, hearing musical laughter sounding from the heavens. 

He rolled side to side like a beetle trying to right itself and pushed himself onto his side, glaring at the giggling idiot atop the hill. One demonic miracle later, and Aziraphale was flying down onto his front and skidding through the mud. The poor thing spluttered and yelped in surprise and cursed when he too slid to a halt at Crowley’s side, his pale face splattered with wet soil and even a rather pissed off looking earthworm. 

“CROWLEY!”

The demon laughed until his belly was sore. 

  


* * *

**Woods of Az’gon, Northumbria, Britain. 866 AD.**

**(Troll toll: one golde coyne. Notte chocolate wrapped in foile.)**

  


Az’gon stared a moment longer, then threw himself forwards.

“Let _me_ do that,” he insisted, staring at the laces between Crowley’s fingers.

“Ah-ah. You need to do something for me, first.”

With a whine, Az’gon stopped and impatiently flexed his fingers.

“Yes. Anything.”

Well, Crowley was already enjoying himself. Temporarily ignoring his laces, he lowered back onto his side and smiled expectantly, gesturing down at his partner’s clothed form. 

“Take all this off, slowly. No miracles. Let me appreciate you.”

It was a big ask, but not one he didn’t think the other wasn’t ready for. He had seen it all before. There was no alcohol involved, to be sure, but the setting was different. Comfortable. Intimate, even. They were safe here to do what they wanted without fear of judgement or punishment, and most importantly of all, they trusted each other. Soundly. And so Crowley’s serpentine eyes fell tender when Az’gon began to do as bid, removing his mask and the bear fur while kicking off his boots. A small miracle had to be spared to get the tunic past his wings. 

Slowly and shyly, everything else was removed and cast aside. Crowley immediately stood and looked over the form presented to him, finally taking it in now that he really had a chance to. 

He touched broad, round shoulders first. Az’gon flinched just a little, but made no attempt to move. The candlelight on his milky skin was absolutely intoxicating, dancing over muscle and softness alike; he was much like the Vikings themselves, built for war but certainly like a man that enjoyed his food, too. Slowly, Crowley brought his hands down that solid chest and allowed his nails to drag softly through the dark hair there, earning himself a tell-tale little gasp from the other. There were scars there, which he very gently touched and then leaned down to kiss, his hands reaching behind to diligently caress the bases of rough wings.

Az’gon shivered and gasped.

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley murmured sincerely, straightening up and moving his hands to his partner’s cheeks. A pair of large eyes stared back at him, sorrowful but blown with lust. “Can’t wait to have you inside me.” It was the truth (and Az’gon really looked as though he was about to discorporate upon having heard it). Extending a hand down, he wrapped it around the half-hard cock pressing into his hip. It was thick and hot and apparently very sensitive; just the smallest jerk of his hand had Az’gon grunting and shaking with restraint.

His own nethers were curiously warm. Twitched every now and again, responding to the arousal alighting within his corporation. He was currently opting for the female parts simply because it was what he felt like trying, and he was surprised to find that the ache forming down there was almost painful. 

His own patience had its limits. Turning, he swept his long hair over his shoulder and presented the laces of his dress for consideration. Hot, fervent breath touched at his neck when Az’gon approached and began to pull at them, and Crowley could tell that the demon was fighting not to simply push him down and have his wild, wicked way with him, which was not actually an unpleasant thought.

_Focus_, _Crowley_. 

It was all rather less intimidating if they were learning together. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t overly confident about his own ability - he wasn’t the only one. Az’gon’s hands were shaking as they pushed the dress down over his shoulders. At once, there were warm lips at the crook of his neck, the brush of coarse hair that sent pleasant tingles down his spine. Tilting his head, he granted his partner better access and pressed back into the solid form behind him as the dress was slowly pulled down from his body.

He wasn’t anything special, he thought. He was long and narrow and not particularly toned. Probably more like something one might throw than consider kissing. And yet, lust and attraction spilled from Az’gon in powerful waves as his rough hands moved about Crowley’s body, gripping and stroking up his thighs, travelling over the flat planes of his chest and stomach. Fingertips brushed over a pert nipple and - holy shit, why did _that_ feel so good?

That urgent touch travelling about his body left streaks of pleasurable heat in their wake. Startled by how it felt, Crowley turned within the arms holding him and decided on following his corporation’s eager instincts. Wrapping his arms around Az’gon’s shoulders, he brought their bodies together and into a hungry kiss, feeling the need to be as close to the other as he could possibly be. 

It was nice. Very nice, in fact. He could get lost in how it all felt. Az’gon was surrounding every part of him, touching all of him, and while being so up and in someone would take some getting used to, there was nowhere else that he wanted to be. His breath was stolen and his knees were weak, fit to drop when a hot, rough hand sought the apex of his legs and pressed in to caress the soft folds of his cunt.

Az’gon very nearly had to hold him upright. Holding on for dear life, Crowley cursed and glanced between them, only just realising how wet it was down there. Slightly embarrassed by the noises and the stickiness forming, he pulled back a little for validation and received it in the form of Az’gon’s expression: that of a starving man only allowed to divulge in his meal by consuming it in tiny pieces, so intensely focused and flushed. The ministrations of his hand gained focus, his middle finger stroking at the hot slit until it parted and opened up a whole new world of sensitivity.

“Oh, _fuck_,” Crowley gasped, his knees nearly buckling. Before he could embarrass himself further, he pulled at his partner and brought them both tumbling down onto the bed. They were wrapped around each other at once, grabbing and groping, even wrestling a bit in a bid to come out on top. Laughing, Crowley allowed himself to be pinned down and spread his legs in a receptive display, pulling Az’gon between them. “All right,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses to his jaw. Another flood of arousal pooled at his cunt and he whined softly as he felt the tip of a hard cock brush teasingly near his entrance. “All right, think I’m ready.”

“Mm,” Az’gon hummed, biting hard at his lower lip. His demonic eyes were so blown with want that they were almost entirely black, and it was clear that he wanted nothing more than to take what was being offered to him. With a growl, he instead fondled some more at the silky folds, a finger pressing testingly at the entrance. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What does that mean?” Crowley pushed impatiently, heeding the deep, hot ache there, the silent call to be filled. He was stunned into passiveness when Az’gon brought that finger up to his mouth and held his gaze as he licked and sucked it clean with a deep, satisfied grunt. “I - I can … nuhhgh.”

“I’ll have you until you’re hoarse and sore all over,” Az’gon said lowly, a familiar, velvety sort of tone entering his rugged voice, and he shared the taste at his lips with a kiss before slowly shifting down. He kissed and sucked and bit at Crowley’s skin on his journey southwards. “But I won’t hurt you.”

Confused but intrigued, Crowley leaned up on his elbows and watched as his partner made himself comfortable between his legs, hoisting his knees up over his shoulders. 

Oh. That was a thing, then. He truly had no idea what to expect from this particular position. When hungered kisses were pressed with surprising gentility at his inner thighs, he exhaled shakily and tried to prepare himself for whatever was coming. Strange that he didn’t know and yet his brand new parts seemed to; it was pulsing with his heartbeat, clenching around something that wasn’t yet there, and then - and then - 

He fell back, whimpering into the pillow. 

Az’gon had parted the outer lips with his fingers and then that hot, clever tongue was dragging firmly over the entirety of him, hitting a number of mysterious and exciting spots on its way. Shifting again, it painted small circles around the entrance and then dipped inside.

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed, unbidden. Barely managing to look down, he found his partner buried in him wearing that look of serene concentration, eyes closed. And then that changed. As though getting a taste for this particular course, Az’gon groaned lowly and buried himself in even deeper, pulling Crowley’s hips right up into his face. He proceeded to eat him out as if the world would be ending come the next day, and poor Crowley didn’t know what to do with himself - an intense sensation sent his thighs tensing up dramatically and it took all of him to try and relax again. “H-holy shit. What’re you doing to me?”

Slowly, Az’gon abandoned his work with a deep swipe of his tongue, and the look on his face was positively feral. 

“Shall I stop?”

“Nghh. Don’t you _dare_.”

Crowley couldn’t stop his damned thighs from tensing and jerking of their own accord when the pleasure resumed. This time it was a finger circling and then pushing into him and his inner walls clenched again, desperate. And then another finger joined the first, pushing right in up to the knuckles thanks to the generous slick there. It felt like a simple, pleasurable pressure at first, and then Az’gon curled his fingers as he began to thrust them slowly in and out. Poor Crowley nearly went flying out of the bed, crying out in surprise. He had never, ever felt anything like that before, an intense sweetness there inside him, a spark that suggested a great flame to come. 

“Please,” he begged, fully entrenched in a mindless fog of delectation. He needed something, anything, whatever that might be. When his whining was answered by a tongue at his clit, he had to fight to control the movements of his legs in case he kicked Az’gon straight in the head. “Oh, fffuck.”

The sensation was unbelievable. The fingers thrusting into his core only sped up in response, gaining speed until they were roughly pumping and rocking his entire body with their movements. What had been sparks of pleasure were combining into one long stream of intensity, pleasure abound inside him, outside him, everywhere, and it was only getting more and more powerful as the seconds passed. 

Az’gon swept his tongue over his clit again was diligent in his attention to it, pressing in and eagerly sucking, kissing, doing whatever it took for Crowley to start seeing white a mere minute or so later. It was too much, too _much_ -

Half a yell escaped Crowley before he flung his hands up to his mouth. His back arched and his legs clenched so hard around Az’gon’s head that there was the brief fear that his partner would suffocate. It wasn’t pleasure, now, but sheer ecstasy, racing through him like electricity and lighting his nerves on fire. He actually sobbed and fought to regain control of himself, trembling like a leaf in the wind as slowly, slowly, it began to ebb, and he was forced to grab Az’gon by the hair and push him back so that he might have time to recover. 

Of course, Az’gon was the very definition of obscene. He sat back and wiped his mouth clean, looking rather pleased with himself and rightly so. Meanwhile, Crowley rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, trying to unwind his thoughts from the tight jumble they had gotten themselves into during what could only be described as the Spasm of the Ages. 

No. Orgasm. Idiot.

Az’gon had done that. He had done that amazing, inexplicable thing. He was amazing. Perfect. Looking at him like a lust-filled animal, but still. An enormous swell of love and affection filled his heart and he was embarrassed to find tears forming in his eyes. Just a natural reaction. Hopefully.

Shakily sitting up, he held his lover’s head in his hands and beheld him with all the love that he felt in that moment. He had to know. He deserved so badly to know. 

“I’m ready,” was all he was able to croak out.

Apparently his body still had plenty of excitement to spare. After that brief pause, they were arranging themselves again with another struggle. This time, Crowley came out on top, pushing Az’gon up and then crawling into his lap with a self-satisfied smirk.

“You’ve been patient, haven’t you?” he commended, and noted the slight shiver that he felt take Az’gon at the praise. Reaching down between them, he gently grasped the rigid cock and felt it throb between his fingers. Curious, he very slowly stroked at its sheath, pushing it back until the head was exposed in its entirety. His thumb danced over the tip and Az’gon moaned lowly, clearly overcome with restraint but unwilling to act upon the feral urges taking hold. Crowley kissed at his flushed face, tasting the salt of sweat. “Gonna take care of you, now.”

Rising a little, Crowley positioned himself appropriately and directed the thick shaft in his hand towards his entrance. The thickness of it as he began to slowly, slowly lower down was intimidating, but there was less resistance than he might have thought as that heavy length slid into silken depths. The journey down seemed never ending, and he was forced to sit and wait a moment once fully sheathed, holding onto his lover with shaking arms. 

Finally, they were one. They were as close as they could possibly be. His wonderful, exasperating, clever, maddening Aziraphale - Az’gon - was giving himself to him in ways Crowley had never expected, and it felt unbelievable. The love in his system was mortifying in its vigour. Undemonic, and thoroughly so. Inconvenient, perhaps, and certainly vexing on occasion if he really thought about it, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not now. 

He gasped as he gently moved, the warm length inside him brushing against that mysterious sweet spot. 

“Crowley,” Az’gon groaned, similarly affected. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. They clenched tightly at Crowley’s hips as they softly rocked back and forth, then they were at his back, roaming desperately. He settled on holding him close and buried his face into his chest, huffing.

“All right?” Crowley asked, running a hand back through Az’gon’s mess of dark curls. His hips continued to ride his partner’s lap, picking up a little in speed and welcoming that length into his tight, sopping heat with a steady rhythm. He wanted it to be everything the opposite of what the other demon might have endured in the recent past. No pain, no fear, just good, wonderful feelings that neither of them had really expected to be capable of. With a pleasured sigh, Crowley’s rhythm stuttered slightly and he grabbed on to Az’gon’s back as a surge of heat between his legs felt like a bomb ready to go off. “Oh. Angel. You’re beautiful, you feel so good …”

The body beneath him shuddered. Without halting his movements, he fisted a hand at the back of Az’gon’s head and pulled him back slightly.

“Look at me,” he begged when eye contact was readily avoided. Slowly, those dark eyes pulled up to his, softened with doubt. “I think - oh, fffuck … Angel … I’m yours, Aziraphale.”

How things had changed.

He’d look back at his revoltingly lovestruck babbling with great displeasure later, but would remember the way the other demon looked at him then with secret fondness. The eyes of a beast of the forest, temporarily tamed despite the wildfires of lust burning within them, an entire story just waiting to be told. Crowley had done that, he realised with great pleasure. Those eyes told him that Az’gon was his, too, and his alone.

“Crowley,” Az’gon said again, a heady growl rumbling in his throat. He took hold of Crowley’s hips and held him fast, ceasing the graceful, fluid movements. Holding him in place, he began to thrust up into his cunt at a hard, steady pace, filling him entirely in rapid succession. The strength of his movements built and built, and he even pawed down between them to finger at Crowley’s throbbing clit. Any words that might have been said in that moment were stolen fresh from their mouths. 

Crowley’s disbelief lasted only a few seconds - then he was overwhelmed by a second orgasm, moaning into Az’gon’s temple as his thighs clenched and trembled, the hot force of impossible pleasure taking control of his body away from him. He cried out, unable to stop it, feeling as though he was being propelled into another state of being (and if he wasn’t careful, his incorporeal body would simply be catapulted right out at this rate). 

Was there any purer existence than this? Joined with someone who performed pleasure like it was poetry, someone who looked at him like that.

At some point, all movement had ceased. Heat pulsed deep into his core and as he came to, he realised that Az’gon had reached completion right there alongside him, the two of them trembling and glittering with the sweat of their effort. Overwhelmed with sensation, Crowley couldn’t even think of anything remotely clever to say, clinging on to his lover as if he were a raft in a stormy sea.

Breathless, he felt himself being lowered back down onto the bed and through the fog he acknowledged that the cock inside him was still hard. Was that how it worked, or was there a demonic miracle at play? Shifting his hips teasingly, he raised an eyebrow up at his partner, who was staring at him and breathing raggedly, the silver-blue irises of his eyes barely visible. 

“Well, someone’s eager,” Crowley commented dryly, though smirked a little. “I’m not a human, you know. You won’t break me. Come on.” He shifted his hips enticingly again. “How about this?” Thinking a moment, he then separated them briefly enough that he might roll over onto his hands and knees, and he looked over his shoulder expectantly. “C’mon, I want more. Fuck me, angel.”

The invitation was met immediately. A hand at the back of his neck pushed him down into the pillows, and then he was filled again with that throbbing cock. The pace was at once bruising, slamming into him from behind. Obscene sounds of wetness and the slap of flesh were barely heard beneath Crowley’s embarrassing wails of pleasure despite how they were muffled by furs; he couldn’t hold it in, the powerful force thrusting him repeatedly forwards struck at that spot within him so rapidly that the beautiful bursts combined into one long, burning flood of intensity. It was enough that it brought actual tears to his eyes and a sob was wrenched from his lips.

Az’gon grunted and groaned as he rutted into him, his hand at Crowley’s hip possessive and grateful all at once. The rest of the world could have just disappeared and both of them would be none the wiser. Everything that had ever really mattered was right there in that stone home, the heat of their bodies meeting and the moans of their enjoyment bringing warmth to woods once cold and dread.

“Fff-uu-uh-ck,” Crowley groaned helplessly, scrabbling for purchase. The pace was relentless and he couldn’t think. Pinned beneath a strong hand, he couldn’t move and somehow that thrilled him all the more even if he’d loathe to admit it out loud. A darker, more primal side of him enjoyed Az’gon taking what he needed, knowing that he had been the one to stir such impressive lust and that in the end, trust and affection were the building blocks of the intimacy they shared. It could have been seconds, minutes - he whimpered as his inner walls began to flutter in that tell-tale way they did, trying to clench around Az’gon’s relentless cock as it drilled him into the bed. 

“Az- I’m gonna -“

Crowley saw stars. He was brought to the pinnacle a third time, fuelled by his sheer want and adoration, the unrestrained flurry of pleasure. His cry was silent and he rattled around the length still fucking mercilessly into him for what felt like minutes, and then - dear bloody Satan - his body seized up a fourth time the moment rough fingers reached for his clit again. He really did scream out then, his back arching in unbridled bliss, pushing back as his thighs trembled and as the meaning of life could suddenly be interpreted as the filthy pleasure gifted unto him by Az’gon’s cock and circling fingers. 

His partner thrust into him once, twice, three more times, then came inside him with a harsh moan, filling him with pulses of warmth. Crowley shook his hips weakly at the sensation, his walls still hungrily hugging at the length.

“Holy shit,” he rasped as the residual pleasure slowly began to abandon his system. His body was still alight with it, a natural glow taking hold. Patiently waiting for the throbs of Az’gon’s own climax to end, Crowley remained there a moment longer and then slowly pulled off. Hot fluid immediately trickled down over his thighs, and he could feel Az’gon’s eyes on him, taking it all in. 

Panting, Crowley rolled onto his back. His entire body felt as though he’d just flown around the entire Earth twenty times. Acting on some strange, new instinct, he reached feebly for his partner and pulled him down on top of him, cradling his head in his arms. 

“So that’s … what all the fuss is about,” he managed after a couple of minutes of foggy contemplation. “Was it all right?”

Az’gon had not been particularly talkative through the entire affair, and it came with some relief when he nodded against Crowley’s chest. He mumbled something, but it was indiscernible. 

“What was that?” 

Silence. 

“Angel?”

An abrupt snore was his answer. 

Well, then. He wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or not. At least he wouldn’t have to think about what to say to follow up - he could barely string his thoughts together, let alone a sentence. He did feel somewhat alone, however, his body still reacting with faint aftershocks and echoes of pleasure; Az’gon’s weight and warmth felt good sprawled across his very sensitive skin, legs tangled with his, but while Aziraphale had never slept, it almost seemed to be a function necessary to Az’gon’s existence. 

With a deep, contented sigh, he stroked a hand idly about his partner’s upper back, tracing jagged scars gently with the tips of his fingers. They brushed into awfully messy wings, straightening as many feathers as they could reach and pulling dead leaves, twigs, and even a bound scroll out of the tangle of blotchy black. He could feel scars and deformities between the stems, too, but if he thought too much about it, he would do something very, very stupid out of anger. Like murder a Duke of Hell or two. 

Az’gon’s wings jerked and folded defensively in on themselves. Crowley placed his arms around his back instead and planted the seeds of pleasant dreams, stroking a hand reassuringly up and down his spine. If the other demon trusted him enough to rest easily in his presence, he was hardly complaining, especially not after everything they had just explored and shared.

And so, Crowley closed his eyes and granted himself the luxury of sleep. Now, however, he knew that he would not wake up alone. 

  


* * *

As promised, he was sore upon waking. 

Hoping that they hadn’t accidentally slept for a decade or two, Crowley blinked firmly a few times to wake himself up. The still burning candles indicated it can’t have been that long, much to his relief; he could just imagine the looks on Hastur and Ligur’s faces upon being told where their two field agents had been for the past twenty years. He could especially imagine the punishment that would follow. 

Waking Az’gon was like trying to rouse a rock. No amount of nudging or romantic murmuring into his ear seemed to work. Flustered, Crowley put one of those horrible sudden fall dreams (one of his inventions, he’d proudly admit) into the mind of his partner and smirked when he finally lurched awake with a horrified gasp. 

Then immediately felt guilty when Az’gon froze up and stared at his surroundings as if he’d forgotten where he was. Sensing an immediate and debilitating fear arising, Crowley was quick to remove his hands from the other demon’s back to give him space, but to his relief, Az’gon settled back down onto his chest and sighed heavily, though his features were troubled. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said quietly, furious at himself. “That was me. Sorry.”

“I’m awake,” Az’gon grumbled flatly, irritated, though his arms wrapped around Crowley’s lithe form and held him tightly. “Wasn’t funny.”

“I know. I just … Nnngah.”

Relieved that he hadn’t inadvertently sent the other demon flying, Crowley brought his arms back around him and resumed running his hand up and down the curve of his spine. Az’gon seemed to accept that as adequate apology, making a small, pleased little noise into Crowley’s chest, his wings quivering with pleasure. It was somewhat reminiscent of behaviours the night before which were now known in far more intimate detail.

It was difficult to believe that it had actually happened - that they had done that, but the residual soreness between Crowley’s legs spoke volumes. It had been good. Very good, in fact, and now his mind wandered down different paths before he could stop it, doors to new possibilities slowly opening up along the way. Az’gon had worked a different kind of magic with his warm hands. Beautiful as much as it was dangerous. 

It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it might go. Before, every once in a while, he had caught himself fantasising like a teenager and imagined slowly courting Aziraphale over time, because that’s what Aziraphale would have wanted it to be. Slow and thoughtful so that he had time to get his thoughts around it - that’s if he would have even contemplated such a thing. Aziraphale in his truest sense had been a prisoner, always bound by the watchful eye of Heaven over his shoulder. Perhaps Az’gon’s inflated passions were a result of a kind of freedom from holy binds. Perhaps they were born of a want that had always been there, deep down. Crowley hoped. 

Thoughts on the matter were disturbed when a hot tongue swirled lazily around his nipple, awakening an immediate tingle of pleasure that shot straight to his groin. He shivered and arched slightly into the ministrations with a low hum of wanton consent. 

Crowley was fucked. He loved this attention. It was good. And now he’d be stuck craving it forever. 

After a minute or two of further kisses, Crowley parted his legs suggestively and nudged Az’gon between them, hissing lightly when a sweet sting arose alongside the soreness. 

“Gently,” he insisted. “Feels like you went at me with a battering ram.”

“Sorry,” Az’gon murmured quickly. Reaching down, a miracle encased his hand with a pleasant chill and he pressed his palm carefully against Crowley’s mound. That in itself was intensely pleasurable whether the intent was there or not, and Crowley made an embarrassing sound, his legs clenching around his partner’s waist. The coolness eased the sting and gentle magic worked on healing any pains entirely. “Are you sure -“

“Yes. Come _on_.” Crowley used his calves to press Az’gon’s hips forwards. “It’s better. Please.”

He sighed with relief as he was filled again. Relaxing back into the pillows, he continued stroking up and down Az’gon’s back, his free hand holding the base of one strong wing. The other demon seemed half asleep still, his head buried in Crowley’s neck. It was slower this time, devoid of the physical urgency that had claimed them both the night before, but the lazy rocking served to feel just as good.

As they gradually woke up together, they kissed as their hips slowly rolled to meet between them. Crowley delighted in it, humming into the passionate mouth claiming his. How he revelled in the heated attention knowing that Az’gon wanted him, trusted him. It felt better than anything in the entire world. If Heaven had given him anything good it was this, and they had really outdone themselves with this one. He writhed beneath Az’gon’s mass, digging his nails into the solid flesh of his back as their pace heated.

Their kiss broke apart. Crowley flung his head back and moaned, long and deep.

“Yes, yes, right there … holy shit, don’t stop … I’ll bend your ear for a week if you bloody stop now ... _Angel_.”

It seemed to go on forever. At its end, it was bittersweet. Crowley trembled as a gentle climax took him, the fire lighting the candles flaring with a hellish glow right alongside him. His body was white hot as that beautiful, overwhelming sensation took him back to the stars and beyond, and he clung desperately to the solid form braced against him. His lover grunted with satisfaction and filled him as he reached his peak.

Together, they lay strewn atop the furs and blankets, recovering in the soft candlelight. Az’gon had that bleary-eyed look of somebody still in the process of waking up, while Crowley stared at the ceiling with more of a stunned sort of expression. With a hard swallow, the latter did what came naturally and inched closer to his partner to rest his head on his chest, drawing a finger idly through the soft hair there. 

“Are you sure you learnt all that just by thinking about it?” He asked after a minute or two of silence, once his thoughts had successfully gathered into something resembling cohesiveness. 

Az’gon merely grunted in response, and it was unclear whether it was an affirmation or not. He made no attempt to touch Crowley or even communicate, seeming lost in his own thoughts. Wasn’t it part of the post-coitus process to do those things? Or had Crowley been mistaken? Suddenly feeling a bit awkward, he shifted away and sat up instead, casting a quick miracle to cleanse himself of any residual mess. 

His partner was a demon of pleasurable vices. Perhaps that was all it had been. It was disappointing if such was the case, but trying to believe otherwise had been a mistake - when had Aziraphale ever given any indication that his innate love for all life was separate to his feelings for Crowley?

The distance was a good thing, then. Enjoying the pleasures of the flesh was one thing, at least where Hell was concerned. The subject of love was on a whole other level of absolutely not, no way José. 

Still, he couldn’t help but feel like a mere means to an end. Not that he would show it. He would be cool and cold, just as a demon should be, definitely not hurt by matters of what could be dubbed ‘human affairs’. They were too unimportant to really affect him, after all. Sex was most definitely a human affair. Demons could enjoy it, apparently, but what did it really mean for them?

Crowley said nothing as he slipped from the bed and pulled his dress back on. His legs were sore and stiff but it was nothing another quick miracle couldn’t fix. His thoughts were surely more painful than any bodily slight, but the demon was a master of concealing his innermost concerns to the point he could even sometimes convince himself they were nothing to be concerned about at all.

He couldn’t do it. Not with this. 

Finding his belt slung over a chair, he stiffly pulled it on and then risked glancing back over at his friend, finding him still somewhat absent. Oddly, Az’gon was looking at his hands, turning them slowly this way and that.

Giving him a moment, Crowley located his wand underneath the bed and turned it about a bit between his long fingers. Something about it reminded him of times long past, when things had seemed so much simpler despite their being on opposite sides. Turning his thoughts away from the past, he tucked the wand into his belt and then sat on the edge of the bed to place a hand on his friend’s arm.

Az’gon seemed to snap back into focus. Quickly dropping his hands, he looked at Crowley with a touch of befuddlement and then sat up, running a hand back through his mop of curls. 

“Oh, I … sorry. Er …”

“For what?”

“For, well … a great many things, I suppose.” Offering a quick, nervous smile, Az’gon didn’t seem to know where to look. “For, um … you know. Not being an angel.”

“Not being a …” Crowley repeated, stunned. After a moment of processing, he continued, “Why would you need to be sorry for that?”

“That’s what you call me. But I’m not an angel anymore.”

“I know you’re not. It doesn’t matter to me what you are. You wanna go off and be an ogre or something? You be an ogre. I’ll still … I won’t think anything different of you. I’d call you angel because you’d be an ogre with a good heart. That’s you, Az’gon. One of a kind, like always.”

It didn’t seem to help matters. Clenching furs into his fists, Az’gon was tightly wound into a ball of worry. That sort of tearful, pinched expression was one that Crowley had seen before when the angel was beside himself fretting about what Heaven would think of his latest mishap, only Heaven couldn’t be the shadow looming over his head, now. 

“I’m not good,” Az’gon insisted, his eyes frantically searching the blank space before him. “I killed angels, Crowley. I killed demons. He - _Aziraphale_ \- he _never_ would have … and now he’s gone and I was what was left behind and I can’t be him. I can’t bring him back to you! They …” Running his hands back through his hair, the demon’s fingers aggressively rubbed at his head. “They did such awful things, he’d never want to come back. I - he didn’t want to come back. I’m sorry, Crowley.”

The words were like shards of ice pelting him. Chilled to the bone by the idea of Aziraphale being _dead_, Crowley was subject to the emotional impact of the idea, so much so that he actually felt a moment of grief. Hating himself for it, he shook his head and quickly seized Az’gon’s hands before the other demon could do damage with them, forcing him back onto the bed so that he could pin him down and sit astride his waist. His touch was firm, but he was careful not to hurt lest he tipped the scales too far in the wrong direction. 

“Shut up. He isn’t gone. He isn’t a separate person. He’s you. Just because you look a bit different, maybe think a different way, doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself. I’m the same being I was before I Fell, you know. It’s just that things change. That’s the bloody Universe for you, innit? Nothing stays the same. Not angels. Not me and you. He’s the only person I ever actually liked, and I like _you_, so that must mean you’re one and the same. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did without killing anyone! And I _know_, angel, I know that they were trying to kill you, first. Weren’t they? They hurt you, didn’t they? If you hadn’t already gotten to ‘em, I would’ve killed them myself and I’d have enjoyed it.”

Az’gon’s eyes clenched shut, tears spilling from the corners. 

“It’s going to get easier,” Crowley promised, the fiery venom fading from his tone. His hands squeezed at the rougher ones he held pinned to the bed. “It will. I promise. You’ll find that thing that’ll make you feel like you again. Being a demon isn’t so bad, it’s just the others that are awful. Not too different to being in Heaven, right? And - oh.” Shifting back a bit, he raised his eyebrows. Surely that couldn’t be what he thought it was pressing against the inside of his thigh? Releasing the other’s hands, he sat back completely to find his suspicions were confirmed. “Right. You can’t be anyone but Aziraphale, can you? You’re absolutely insatiable.”

Az’gon quickly wiped his eyes, not looking the least bit sheepish. Either he was too upset or genuinely didn’t care about what his body was doing. Maybe cocks really did just do That on their own - Crowley would find out one day, he was sure of it. Maybe the fact he had been sat directly on top of it spouting off about God knows what hadn’t helped matters, so he was willing to take some responsibility, even if he was still unsure what it all really meant. 

Bear-like eyes blinked wonderingly up at him. Crowley could and would get to the bottom of those wells of sorrow. He would empty them and then refill them until every trace of ruin was gone, and then maybe Az’gon would smile at him in that way he used to.

Maybe he would realise Crowley could be that thing to make him feel himself again. Maybe he would extend his touch in reciprocation of the truly inevitable.

Maybe one day.


End file.
